


An Omega in SHIELD Academy

by Entropyrose



Series: Baby Boomer [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Alpha!Brock Rumlow, Alpha!Leo Maroni, Alpha!Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breastfeeding, Cheating, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Knotting, Lactation Kink, M/M, Morning After Pill, Mpreg, Nipple Play, Omega!Bailey Barnes, Omega!Sasha DRagnov, Rape, References to Knotting, Slow Burn, Some angst, Unrequited Love, background stucky, mention of underage rape, omega! Bucky Barnes, quazi-rape, rapey content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 82,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9648122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: “Come on!”  At some point Rumlow has stepped past the circle of captivated students and lowered himself to their level on the floor, because his fist comes down just outside of the circle of red tape and he begins shouting out expletives like a Rottweiler at the end of his chain. “Fucking really? You gonna let him take you to town like that? Jesus-fuck Boomer! Get that leg over! Don’t take his shit!”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hiemallily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiemallily/gifts).



* * * * *

He is up 15 minutes before the alarm, jolting from a corpse-like sleep to an upright position, shivering and covered in sweat. Another bad dream. A slender figure in the hallway with glowing red eyes, vine-like tentacles wriggling out from its spine and a mouth dripping with blood. It reeks of death, and  it’s so real the copper tinge is still fresh in his nostrils and he glances down at the sliver of light pouring in through the open doorway, lets out a shudder of relief when he sees that the dark pool isn’t there, neither is the creature, it’s just him in a room devoid of décor, a single white curtain draped over the window, the cool night air blowing in. He swipes the beads of sweat off his face and slides out of bed.

 

He watches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Runs cold water, splashes his face, his grown-out stubble scratching his calloused fingertips. He stares into the black/brown pools of his eyes for a moment before peeling off his tank top and dropping to the bathroom tile, biceps pumping away furiously, burning awake as he hefts the whole weight of his body with his hands.  

 

After morning reps, a run and a 45-minute weight session, he slips out of his boxers, unwraps the tape from his knuckles and starts the shower water.

 

* * * * *

 

He is up 15 minutes before the alarm, eyes snapping open towards the ceiling. He allows himself one long-limbed stretch encompassing the length of his body before slipping out from under the sheets and landing on fingers and toes on the floor. He hooks one hand behind his back and lifts the entire weight off the floor with the other, switching in between reps. They fire like two well-oiled pistons. He flips onto his back minutes later, turning his elbows upwards to meet his knees, first one then the other, for 50 reps each. He is awake now, his heart pumping soundly as he snatches the pair of sweatpants from the back of the chair and slides them on.

 

His run is a three-mile perimeter that takes him 10 minutes each lap, less if he’s running with either of his Dads. Today he is in no hurry—the Hand-Combat Finals are today, and he will need to save some of his strength to be his best in each bout.  His Daddy’s up making coffee when he returns home.

 

“Morning.” He swipes a fresh muffin off the counter and steals a quick kiss on his father’s cheek before padding off down the hallway to the shower.

 

* * * * *

 

“Simmons, Katie,” The instructor announces. A slender blonde with a slight build steps forward on the mat, sliding a block of foam between her teeth and slapping some dust between her hands. “Barnes, Bailey.”

 

He almost doesn’t recognize his name. His name is almost exclusively used by his Dads when he has done something to piss them off—but now that he is nearly twenty-one years old, even those times seem few and far between. It’s not so much that he doesn’t do things to warrant his parents’ disapproval as it is having outgrown conventional discipline. He powders his hands, toes the line, and comes face to face with the most badass female recruit in all of Shield Academy.

 

Katie is an alpha, and she flashes him a superior grin as she lines herself up, matching his swaying motion. “You’re going down, Barnes.”

 

Boomer grins back, always happy to accept a seemingly insurmountable challenge, and lashes out just as the Instructor blows the whistle. Her lithe little body is pure muscle and she slams against him, wriggling like an eel and landing quick jabs to his head and neck. Boomer blocks those easily enough, careful to keep his feet together while waiting for an opening. “An eye on every angle,” he murmurs.

 

“What?”

 

His booted foot sweeps under her lifted knee but she saves it, grabbing on to his bicep like a squirrel monkey dangling from a tree. Boomer wavers but catches his balance and lands in a punch to her solar plexus before deflecting a kick to his rib-cage. He might be a little taller than her, but she is persistent and lands a few good hits before Boomer can hook her leg again, finally bringing her down to the mat. He locks both arms around her thigh, just about bending her in two and the entire class roars as one voice as he pins her to the floor.

 

“Come on, Cat!,” one of their schoolmates barks. “You let him keep you in that position, he’ll be breeding _you_!”

 

“Easy,” the instructor remarks.

 

Her scent has died down considerably, her teeth bared and face contorted into a nasty grimace as Boomer flips her forwards with a flick of his wrist. She lands belly-down on the mat with a frustrated growl, hands twisted behind her back , legs lashing out, throwing her head. “You ever hear that before , Kitty?” Boomer’s taunt is a mere hiss, meant only for her ears. “An alpha having a wimpy little omega’s baby? Imagine what the Agency will say!”

 

“Dick,” she grounds out, finding his with a boot.

 

Boomer lets out an undignified squeak, his hand cupping his junk protectively. The tables are turned quite easily at that point, and the wind is knocked out of his lungs as his shoulder-blades dig into the floor, burning his bare skin. Katie lets out a triumphant cackle as she shimmies her way on top with Boomer still in the fetal position, cradling his hurt pride (among other things). His hands appear just in time to capture hers mid-air before she can claw his face off.

 

“Pain doesn’t exist!” A familiar voice rings out. The students turn their heads, but Boomer doesn’t have to. “Not until after her ass has been handed to her.” Boomer sucks in a deep breath, chest heaving as he fights through the throbbing sensation in his groin and spreads their locked hands apart, slamming her chest down on his and sweeping her arms behind her once more.

 

Boomer wipes the mat clean with the compact powerhouse, steeling his weight against her for the final hold. As the instructor taps the mat above their heads, he lets out an impish giggle. “See Kitty? It’s okay. It’ll all be over soon.”

 

“Barnes—“ her body contorts, every muscle seizing up as she struggles for control. “—gonna kill you!”

 

“OUT!” The Professor announces, slicing his hand through the air.

 

Boomer releases her, eyes locked down on her, a smooth grin crossing his face. He offers his hand down to her and she pushes it away. “Next time,” he says.

 

“Next time it’ll be your ass.” Her angry green eyes flash as she stalks out of the circle.

 

Boomer shrugs. “Fair enough.”

 

“You know, technically we could call interference,” The professor sidles up to Rumlow, whose arms are crossed in front of his chest, eyeing the scene with a satisfactory smirk.

 

“In war, there’s always interference. Not exactly going to stop the battle just because someone threw a grenade you weren’t ready for.”

 

The professor nods. “Point taken.” He blows the whistle around his neck and circles a pointer finger in the air. “Take 15 everybody. Joy and Trudall, you guys are up next.”

 

Boomer makes it to the locker room before he can no longer hide his limp. “That was close,” one of his schoolmates says, bumping his elbow as he walks past.

 

Boomer inspects the red streaks that run along his chest and neck, and the two rug-burns on his shoulder blades in the mirror. He hisses a little at the sharp sting between his legs. “Ahh….yeah, she got my nads good, too.”

 

“You ready, partner?” A lanky black-haired, blue-eyed devil struts in behind him.

 

Boomer is too busy rubbing the nape of his neck to bother looking up. His face contorts into a look of annoyance and he murmurs, “Fuck off, Leo.”

 

Leo tisks, his face sliding into a mock-wince as he steps up to the mirror to inspect his shirtless form. Leo is the tallest, biggest, oldest, (and he would say, strongest) student. Officially having graduated last year, he is part-time assistant instructor as he finishes up his combat courses to begin training with the S.t.r.i.k.e team. As far as Boomer is convinced, he can have it. He’d much rather work alone in the field—maybe undercover, maybe somewhere that’s not New York. “They put such a dirty tongue in that pretty little mouth, didn’t they?” He pulls his hand back and Boomer shifts, reveling in the resounding “CRACK” as Leo’s fingers connect with the solid marble counter.

 

“Oooh! Did that hurt?” Boomer brings his hand to his open mouth, batting his eyelashes comically.

 

Leo huffs out a snide snicker as he shakes his throbbing hand, the knotted muscles of his back flexing in time with the motion. “Not as much as you will in about 5 minutes.”

 

“5 minutes?,” Boomer taunts. “Is that all it takes you?”

 

“Cute.” Leo tugs on a blood-red strand of hair, shoving it behind Boomer’s ear. “Better keep that wet rag of yours tied back. I tend to play dirty.”

 

Boomer glares, watching as the lanky alpha struts off, crossing the room to his locker. He shakes his head furiously, loosening the tendrils and letting fall over his eyes.

 

“Don’t listen to him,” another classmate says, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. “He’s still sore about last time.”

 

Boomer’s smile returns when he thinks about the one (and so far only) time he has ever beaten the overconfident alpha and the mixed look of shock, rage and disbelief contorting his usually smug features. He had taken him out in one blow, knocking him off the mat and effectively out of the circle. Boomer considers it his single most crowning achievement.

 

He splashes himself and towels off, scrubbing at his flesh until it turns a bright pink. His scent kicks up with the slightest bit of exertion, so he needs to wash extra well between matches.

 

Steve had practically begged him to find something else—anything else—he wanted to do besides joining Shield. Even the military would have been safer—at least then he’d be in barracks with other omegas. Bucky had been uncharacteristically neutral about it; he had probably been thinking the same thing as Boomer—that Boomer is the son of Captain Fucking America and Bucky Fucking Barnes and that has got to count for something.

 

Boomer hops off the counter. He takes a second glance in the mirror at the wet strands of hair falling into his eyes and swipes a hair tie out of his duffel on afterthought.

 

* * * * *

 

“Maroni, Leo.” The towering black-haired alpha god peels off his standard-issue academy tee-shirt to reveal shredded, taught muscle that dances under the swirling patterns of black tattoos. One arm is covered in them—a tribal design that wraps around and scrolls up to his neck. His hair is shaven on the sides and longer in the front. His legs, like two knotted tree trunks that shoot out from beneath baggy boxing shorts are a sharp contrast from the top half of him—bare except for a small Shield crest stamped just above his right ankle. He jerks his head from side to side, the snapping sound of bone-on-bone as he cracks his neck and tamps his powdered fists together raising a tendril of dread deep within Boomer as he meets him at the line.

 

Boomer doesn’t like being stared at—and Leo is leering at him, eyes gleaming and mouth watering like he’s a slab of brisket at the supermarket. He pushes the dread down, knowing that Leo can see it—smell it— _feel_ it, and closes his mouth around the foam block between his teeth.

 

Leo never wears the protective retainer, of course not—nobody has ever gotten close enough to knock a tooth out. Because Leo is already graduated from the Green Level, Boomer doesn’t have to win this match to progress—he just has to stay alive and maybe get a few good jabs in where he can. He is shorter by nearly a head, having never reached that six foot mark, probably something to do with the fact that his Dad was sickly and thin before the Serum. But he is the son of the Winter Soldier, a standard that he has strived to live up to and something that gives him a little edge when dealing with bully alphas.

 

Leo smells darker than he looks— deep musky scent mingles with that of wild berries and wet cedar and already Boomer can feel it turning his insides to mush. Omegas were made to obey that scent—to yield and obey and practically _yearn_ for it. Boomer snuffs out the flickering flame inside with a sharp lunge just as the whistle sounds.

 

The first hit lands just above Leo’s left pectoral and immediately he regrets the move—Leo’s branch-like leg flies up and hooks just below his shoulders, trampling him to the mat and knocking the air out of his lungs. He rolls away as he scrambles for breath, catching a sneakered foot in between his hands as it barrels down on his chest.

 

Boomer feels the familiar presence of his Uncle’s watchful gaze as he grapples with his superior; it’s distracting to say the least. Rumlow probably doesn’t even realize how thick his scent is—hanging in the air above their heads like the angel of death. A growl emanates deep within Leo’s chest and he drops to one knee, his arms wrapping around Boomer and pulling him into a combination pretzel-chokehold.

 

“Come _on_!”  At some point Rumlow has stepped past the circle of captivated students and lowered himself to their level on the floor, because his fist comes down just outside of the circle of red tape and he begins shouting out expletives like a Rottweiler at the end of his chain. “Fucking really? You gonna let him take you to town like that? Jesus-fuck Boomer! Get that leg over! Don’t take his shit!”

 

Boomer lets out a stifled roar, his muscles screaming at him as he pushes his bent knees forward into Leo’s chest, peeling himself out of the ball Leo is trying to compress him into. He gains enough leverage to wrap one leg around Leo’s waist and hook his foot into the opposite leg, squeezing down on the pressure point there.

 

Leo groans, even if that stupid fucking smirk is still plastered to his face, his whole body turning into the sudden sharp pain. It’s just instinct to want to pull away, to jerk back from the searing sting and lose his hold on the wriggling redhead trapped beneath him.

 

But pain doesn’t exist until after the battle. He lets out an authoritative growl and rocks on top of him, sending Boomers knees back to his chest and flipping him on his stomach in one solid move. Boomer’s arms splay out in front of him, fingers scraping for something, _anything_ to hold on to as he feels himself being dragged back into the center of the circle by the waist of his pants.

 

His ass is now firmly planted in Leo’s groin and Leo bucks tauntingly forward, rutting his junk between his legs and throwing his head back as the whole class has a good laugh. “Why don’t you just stay here?,” he teases, deflecting a meager kick and trapping both Boomer’s legs with his own. “This position looks good on you.” Leo rides him as Boomer tries to throw him off; he thrashes and tosses his hips, looking not unlike like a flushed-faced, red-haired mechanical bull.

 

Leo’s fist is in his hair, now, knotting into the tightly-tied ponytail and setting Boomer’s scalp ablaze. He lowers his lips to Boomer’s ear, panting and amused, whispering, “Just lie still and enjoy it like you were _bred_ to.”

 

Boomer takes a note from Katie’s book, lunging backward with both feet and landing them square into Leo’s groin. Leo launches backward with a howl and Boomer springs to his feet, reeling back and letting his fist fly into Leo’s face. The connection reverberates with a loud SMACK and a stream of blood breaks away from Leo’s nostril, running down into his mouth. “First blood!,” a fellow student cries excitedly. “Boomer drew first blood!”

 

The victory is short lived as Leo’s hackles raise, his eyes flaring bright black in his fury and he lets loose a hailstorm of blows as Boomer blocks his face with arms crossed above his head. The fists are boney and sharp and sting like third-degree burns, lighting little red marks all over his shoulders and chest. One hit lands lower, squared knuckles dragging along his ribcage and one bone gives with a resounding “SNAP”.

 

“AH!” Boomer lets out a yelp, stumbling backwards, clutching his side and squeezing his eyes shut at the unbearable pain. His lungs are on fire—any inward breath makes it feel like the bone is going to split out of his skin.

 

He winces, waiting for the next blow, but it doesn’t come. He slides one eye open, peering at the towering brunet whose hands now rest at his sides, his knuckles bruised and broken.

 

“Two minutes twelve seconds,” the instructor announces.

 

Boomer looks down at his feet, and the red taped line just in front of them. He went out-of-bounds.

 

“Are you okay?” Katie is the first at his side, swinging an arm around his shoulders and shooting a nasty glare over at Leo, whose face has fallen into an unreadable stare. “Really, Leo! You are such an asshole!”

 

“I’m fine,” Boomer murmurs, but accepts her help anyway. They limp off to the locker room, Boomer catching a glimpse of the slightly worried expression on Rumlow’s face.

 

They stumble in, the heavy steel door opening with a whine while Katie looks him over. “I’m okay, really,” he insists. She glances up at him with a disbelieving glance. He gives his side an experimental touch, pushing two fingers in and hissing when pain lights through his insides. He hops up onto the counter. Something about her scent is calming his senses, his omega instincts taking over and relaxing into the light touches as she inspects his wound.

 

“It’s not a break, I don’t think,” she announces finally. “But we should probably get some x-rays to check.”

 

“No x-rays,” he murmurs. Most doctors are alphas. Most alphas are grabby. The last thing he needs right now is yet _another_ pervert taking advantage of their authority and feeling him up.

 

“You okay?” Leo strides in, a genuine look of concern on his face. Of the two of them, Leo looks as if he got the worse for wear, bleeding from one nostril and a cut on his forehead, his lanky body covered with bruises that are already starting to turn a deep purple.

 

“You get out of here!” Katie whirls, hackles up, a growl resonating deep in her chest like a lioness guarding her kill. Leo brushes past, ignoring all the warning signals she is firing at him, bending low to see the damage for himself.

 

Boomer flattens his back against the mirror. “No, don’t. Seriously, it's cool.” Having the uber-alpha standing this close to him, all fight and fury gone from his face, is almost more worrisome than staring him down on the mat. Boomer is cornered, two alphas and no escape, completely at their mercy.

 

“I’m sorry, dude. I shouldn’t have gone at you like that.”

 

Boomer’s shoulders relax a bit and he flicks his tongue out over his scraped-up lip. “S’okay. Right now I just really want to take a shower.”

 

Leo’s eyes light up for a split-second, the alpha in him roaring to life, the urge to breed plain as day on his face. He takes a step forward and Boomer hops off the counter, ignoring the screaming pain in his side, stepping backwards into the bathroom.

 

“Alone,” he clarifies.

 

 It seems to snap Leo out of his lusty haze because he shakes his head as if waking up from a daydream and falters back. “Oh, uhm. Yeah.”

 

Boomer waits until they are gone to start up the water. He chooses the furthest stall, peeling himself out of his clothes, grabbing the stale bar of soap from the shelf and shivering as he steps under the spray. The suds and water swirl together at his feet. The warm mist helps ease his breathing and the tingling sensation of the stream cascading down his back relaxes away the dull ache in his muscles.

 

“You did good out there.”

 

“Fuck—“ Boomer starts, ducking his whole body under the shower head  and slinking behind the sliver of wall that juts out from the brick to hide his naked form. “What the hell! You scared the shit out of me!”

 

Rumlow chuckles softly as he picks out a dry bench to sit down on. “Sorry. I wanted to check in on you.”

 

“Yeah, you and every other Alpha,” Boomer mutters, plucking up a bottle of shampoo and dousing his blood-red hair with it.

 

Rumlow can’t stop a secret grin from spreading across his lips. Despite the water and steam and the small alcove he’s decided to stick himself in, his naked body is barely skewed from sight. His dark eyes skid down the kid’s lightly freckled shoulders to the small of his back, to the sculpted roundness of that milky-white ass. He stops himself just short of licking his lips, averting his eyes to the ceiling and adjusting the crotch of his pants to give himself much-needed room. “You uh…you need a ride home?”

 

“I have a car. Remember?”

 

Rumlow rubs his palm on his pant leg. “Oh. Yeah.”

 

Boomer’s green-blue eyes connect with his and it’s like taking a mac-truck straight to the chest. Even after all these years, an icy glimmer remains. Rumlow’s throat runs dry in spite of the steam of the shower. “Look, Uncle Rum, I’m fine. Thanks for your help.” The last word has a sarcastic bite to it that doesn’t escape him.

 

Rumlow laughs dryly, sliding to a standing position. “Heh. See you tomorrow, then.”

 

“Yep,” is the sharp reply.

 

Boomer shuts the water off as he hears the door slam, wiping away moisture that isn’t condensation from his eyes.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

>Message from: Leo<

>what’s up? Feel better?<

 

>Message from: Boom’s Phone<

>No thanks 2 you<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>hah hah<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>what are you doing later tonight<

 

>Message from: Boom’s Phone<

>your mom<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>nice one short stuff<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>feel like getting a burger or something?<

 

>Message from: Boom’s Phone<

>with you?<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>yeh<

 

>Message from: Boom’s Phone<

>ok<

 

>Message from: Boom’s Phone<

>when<

 

>Message from: Leo<

>Look outside<

 

Boomer flicks off the phone with a quizzical smirk and sweeps the curtain away from the window. A leather-clad, helmet-wearing biker dressed in black waves from the street 30 stories below.

 

 

 


	2. Crazy and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha’s eyes snap open, glittering and red with tears, his jaw set and defiant despite being split in two on Rumlow’s cock. “I hope you stay far away from him.” The thrusts become hard blows, the sound of his muffled shouts drowned out by the rough slap of skin on skin. His hole spasms against the expanding knot, holding fast and refusing entry. “You don’t deserve him!” 
> 
> “Don’t you think I know that?” Rumlow grinds out each syllable, his breath hot in Sasha’s ear as he rapid-fire slams into him, his knot finally tearing into the defiant little hole and expanding in, past the tight ring of muscle. There’s a wetness dotting the sheets; it’s not their natural slick, but it’s silky and moist and it cuts down on the friction enough for Rumlow to lock in with a dry grunt. “I could have had him, you know. I could have taken him all those years ago and nobody would have been able to stop me. I could have fucked him and bred him and forced him to have my pups. Maybe I should have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a pretty graphic rape scene, so browse past the third bar of stars if that's not your thing.

 

_“One is very crazy when in love”—Sigmund Freud_

 

 

“I have some bad news.” Bucky rounds the rusty blue Chevy, eyeing it with surrendered disdain. Steve’s upper half emerges from behind the hood, his face and arms caked with glossy black smudges, his eyebrows quirked and mouth half-open, the wrench in his hand paused at a two-o-clock turn.

 

Bucky keeps a stoic expression, holding his husband’s attention hostage with his silence for a moment before a smirk slides across his lips. He rests a hip on what’s left of the bumper and crosses his arms over his chest, watching the questions flash by in Steve’s eyes.

 

Steve smiles cautiously. “What?”

 

“Your son is on a _date_.”

 

Steve’s eyelids flutter as his brain careens into the sentence and slams into a blank wall. “Wait. What?”

 

“Well, he doesn’t think it’s a date.” Bucky absentmindedly brushes black engine dust off Steve’s baby-blue t-shirt (Bucky’s favorite), sweeping his palm against the bulging pectorals beneath. Steve purrs like a puma, the calming aura of his mate’s touch betraying the spike of sudden concern that rises in his chest. Bucky scrunches his nose knowingly. “But it’s a date.”

 

“Our son?,” Steve clarifies. “Boomer -“I-Don’t-need-anybody”-Barnes?”

 

Bucky nods his head. He can see the gears shifting when Steve’s head jerks up suddenly, a territorial grunt rising from his throat, icy blue eyes firing. “Relax, Cap.” Bucky’s hand is firm and warm, soothing his worries with little circles around the center of his chest, close to his thrumming heartbeat. “He’s with Leo.”

 

“Oh.” Steve’s shoulders relax and he huffs out a sigh, leaning back under the hood to give the wrench a couple of sharp twists. “Why didn’t you say so?”

 

“Mmmm, cause I wanted to get you worked up?” Bucky slips behind the towering blond, hooking his thumbs into either belt loop and lining their hips up with a little bump. His hand skates downward, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. “After all, if we’re going to have the house to ourselves tonight, might as well make good use of it, right?”

 

Steve’s hand stills on the wrench as his mouths drops open, a soft moan rumbling up from deep within his chest. “Buck…”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky nibbles on his earlobe with a devious grin. He surges forward, trapping Steve against the hood of his truck.

 

Instead of finishing whatever thought was running through his mind, the towering blond turns in his husband’s arms, biceps wrapping around his slight waist in a firm hold, devouring his mouth in return.

 

* * * * *

 

After dark, the city air is filled with the stench of alpha and scantily dressed omegas, all looking for a good time. On looks alone, Boomer would fade into the alphas with his brushed leather jacket and carpenter-cut jeans. It is a sharp contrast to his delicate natural fragrance—a mixture of beech wood, candle wax and moonflowers. He does his best to ignore Leo’s not-so-subtle attempts at scenting him, sliding away when Leo steps too close, turning up his coat collar to hide his scent-gland and being careful to avoid eye contact.

 

“What’s there to do at 9:30 on a Tuesday night anyway?” Boomer says, mostly directing the question at himself.

 

“Ohhh, you’d be surprised.” Leo turns on one foot as they walk. The streets are steady but not necessarily busy, a problem for an unmated omega that doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Leo produces a plastic card that carries the seal of the State of New York stamped in red and has Boomer’s academy picture cropped into it with the name “Dusty Donald” scrolled below it in bold black letters.

 

“Dusty Donald?” Boomer quirks an eyebrow. “Really?”

 

Leo snickers and holds the card out, just inches from Boomer’s hand. “Look, do you want to have fun tonight or what?”

 

An unmated omega would decline politely, insisting they see a nice movie or have dinner at a well-lit restaurant instead. An unmated omega would steer clear of the dangers of crowded dark bars swarming with alphas and insist upon being escorted home by 11pm where their date would beg and plead and pray pathetically for even the slightest gesture of affection—maybe a kiss goodnight or a hand-job.

 

Boomer snatches the fake I.D., quickly stashing it in his wallet as Leo crooks his head towards a dimly lit side-street. “C’mon.”

 

The club is pulsing with music so loud Boomer can feel his teeth chatter. Bodies jump and writhe on the packed floor, bathed in green and blue and yellow neon lights. The stench of sweat and arousal is so thick he could slice into it with a butter-knife and exposed skin overloads his vision. He has never seen so much naked flesh, but he is careful to not let his eyes show it.

 

“Come on!” Leo is screaming into his ear and it’s just barely discernable as he grabs Boomer’s hand and pulls him through the ocean of shoulders/hair/bracelets/skin/arms/hands. They reach a slick marble counter on the opposite end, Leo bounding through, wedging a shoulder between two alphas that are so tall and broad-shouldered that Boomer can’t see anything past the shadow of their heads. “Six Jager-bombs,” Leo announces, slapping a bill down on the counter.

 

He is still holding Boomer’s hand tightly, the heat from their palms mingling between their fingers. Boomer is glad for the neon lights—it hides the blush he feels spreading across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Moments later, a row of shot glasses replaces the bill and one of them is pushed into Boomer’s hand. He brings the glass up to his nose and winces on inhale.

 

“You’re not supposed to smell it!” Leo slams his shot, shaking his head and letting out a theatrical sigh. “AHH! Like that.”

 

Boomer takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he mimics the motion, the pungent liquid burning all the way down his esophagus. He chokes out a cough, slamming one leather-covered wrist against his mouth, trying to hide his watering eyes.

 

Leo laughs heartily and delivers a slap right between his shoulder blades. “Good boy!”

 

“Aggh---god---that’s awful!”

 

Leo’s eyes glitter in the neon light, his toothy grin giving him an almost ghostly glow. “It’s supposed to be.” His gaze is locked on to Boomer’s, irises growing dark against the kaleidoscope of color. He lifts another shot to Boomer’s lips, touching the cool rim of the glass against his bottom lip, pressing inward and watching the pouty skin go white as the blood rushes out of it.

 

A good omega would politely decline.

 

* * * * *

 

Leo’s body is tight and jagged at every angle, the muscle not so much stacked as it is wiry and hard thanks to countless years of rigorous training. He is proud, too, and has no qualms about peeling away the layers of leather to reveal a tan torso with scrolling black tattoos and knotted abs that ripple as he sways to the beat. His hand is still locked over Boomer’s, pulling him in, flattening his hand palm-down against his stomach.

 

“D-don’t,” Boomer murmurs, gently tugging away. Leo keeps him there with a possessive growl, leaning in to nuzzle at his neck.

 

“C’mon, Barnes, have a little fun, will you?”

 

“I was,” Boomer hisses. 

 

Leo throws his head back and laughs, a move that sends a shockwave of anger through the redhead. “My point is,” he continues, one hand reaching around to the small of Boomer’s back and pressing their bodies together, “You need to loosen up. I mean, how do you know you won’t like something until you try it? ‘Sides, it’s just dancing.”

 

The smell of the jager is still fresh on his breath, mingling with his own dark natural musk and it makes Boomer’s head swim. He bites his bottom lip, no longer able to hide his body’s responses. The alcohol probably helps with that, too, dulling his nerves and causing his accursed omega-ness to bloom to life inside of him, his scent projecting past the scowl on his face and the threatening gleam in his eyes, speaking directly to the alpha in Leo.

 

Leo responds in kind, a dark groan rumbling from deep within his chest, his face buried in Boomer’s neck, dangerously close to his scent-gland. All it would take is the slightest bite…

 

Boomer shoves back against Leo’s chest as his teeth scrape along the gland. “What the _fuck_?!,” he barks. The bodies dancing around them stop momentarily, heads turning towards the sudden disruption.

 

Leo’s face is a mask of innocence/confusion/loss. “The hell is your problem?”

 

Boomer’s eyes flare as he pushes past the crowd, shouldering his way back through the sea of partiers and exiting the way they had come in. Leo’s boots trail close behind, and he can nearly feel the heat of the alpha’s breath on his neck as he bursts out of the glass double-doors and onto the street below.

 

The burst of chilly night air hits his face. He crosses his arms over the chest of his leather jacket, grateful for the cold air filling his lungs. “Boomer, look—“

 

“Take me home.”

 

Leo tugs at his jacket and Boomer throws his hand off. “I said take me home. You piece of alpha _scum!_ What the fuck were you thinking?”

 

Leo throws his hands wide, almost apologetically, and the display earns him a raised eyebrow from the bouncer keeping guard at the door. “Look, maybe I wasn’t. Okay?”

 

“Fuckin’ right you weren’t.” Boomer stalks away, beginning the long walk back to the motorcycle. Leo has to trot to catch up, a sound that almost amuses Boomer. He can feel a grin secretly pull at his mouth as he rounds the corner.

 

“Stop,” Leo begs, a powerful hand curling its way around Boomer’s arm. “STOP!” After an unsuccessful attempt to throw him off again, Boomer flashes a burning glare over his shoulder, freezing in place in the dark alleyway. “Look…” Leo huffs out a perturbed sigh, the fingers of his free hand twitching at his side. “I like you, okay? I mean, it’s cool hanging out with you and all but…I’d kinda like to maybe…ya know…give dating a try?”

 

Boomer looks betrayed. “Wh—is that was this is? A-a date?”

 

Leo’s smug smirk returns, that bad-boy smile that Boomer would like nothing better than to erase off his face with his fists. “Well, yeah.” He scrubs that same hand through his black hair, his eyebrows angling upward.

 

Its Boomers turn to laugh, but his is bitter and off-handed. “Fucking prick,” he murmurs. “You know, if you were any kind of real alpha you wouldn’t ask any questions. You’d just assert your dominance—or whatever you call it—and I’d be forced to play along.”

 

Leo’s smile widens. “Is that a challenge?”

 

“What? God, no.” Boomer wrings his arm out of Leo’s reach. “Look. Never mind the ride okay. I’ll get a cab.”

 

Leo follows after him down the side-street, his long legs kicking up gravel as he goes. “One kiss,” he demands.

 

Boomer stops.

 

“One kiss. That’s all I’m gonna ask. Okay? If you hate it, then, I’ll be gone.”

 

“Ya know, I *should* kick your ass for even suggesting it,” Boomer grounds out, but his eyes glisten with curiosity.

 

“Okay,” Leo says. “Okay, deal. Let’s go. You and me, right now. If you win, I’ll never make another move on you, cross my heart. If I win, you owe me a kiss.”

 

Boomer pauses, worrying on his lip before answering. “One kiss?”

 

Leo nods sharply. “One kiss.”

 

Boomer’s knuckles are itching excitedly at the thought of creaming Leo in a square-off. His head is still dizzy from the booze, but he knows Leo can’t be much better off, and if this is what it takes to prove to him that he is just as worthy an opponent as any of his alpha classmates, then so be it. A dark grin alights his face. “You’re on.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Somethin’ smells good.” Rumlow enters the house, the kitchen full of kids and dogs and one heavily pregnant omega stirring something delicious-smelling on the stove.

 

The black-haired houseboy gazes through black bangs, blue eyes wide with dread and surprise, instinctively stiffening when he approaches from behind. Rumlow sweeps his glossy black mane to one shoulder, pulling on the short leather strap attached to his silver collar and exposing the milky white skin beneath. He bites down, sharp teeth dragging along the tender area of his scent-gland, producing a pained whimper.

 

“Mhh…he is not home,” Sasha manages between helpless mewls.

 

Rumlow plants his hand against the roundness of his belly and squeezes. “Tell me something I don’t know, sugar.”

 

“You’re not…you can’t…you’re not supposed to…”

 

“What? Cuz you’re carrying?” Rumlow lands a harsh slap on his ass, clasping the rounded mound with calloused hands, squeezing down mercilessly. “Shit. That fucker keeps you knocked up just to piss me off.”

 

Sasha cuts off a shriek as he is flattened to the stove, the bubbling pot in front of him jostling with the movement. Rumlow ignores the reaction, fingers fluttering underneath his tight black tee to pinch at a sore nipple. Sasha is about ready to pop—his nipples are swollen and leaking and his smell is intoxicating, even if some of that smell belongs to Rollins.

 

“He’s been keeping you to himself. Now, does that sound fair?”

 

“Rumlow…please…the children…”

 

A hand captures his chin, forcing his head further to one side and extending his elegant neck. Bruises and bite marks of every shade pepper his would-be flawless complexion, all at different stages of healing. Rumlow growls into his ear. “You can make this easy or hard, sweet cheeks. Which would you prefer?”

 

He releases Sasha with a shove and obediently, the omega shuts off the stove, falling into line in front of Rumlow for their march to the bedroom. “Daddy will be right back, Demitri,” he pats the head of a brown-haired boy, whispering so gently and sweetly that it is all Rumlow can do to refrain from taking him right here and now, consequences be damned.

 

He curls his fists and gestures with his chin towards the bedroom door, eyes burning into Sasha’s.

 

Sasha swallows dryly and obeys.

 

Rumlow bolts and locks the door, throwing his duffel onto the bed. “Get showered,” he murmurs.

 

Sasha quirks an eyebrow at him but does as he is told, stripping off Rollin’s tee shirt to reveal his aching pink tits, a rounded belly and the flaccid cock that hangs beneath them. He steps in, turning on the faucet and shivering as cold water cascades down his back.

 

“Hurry up,” Rumlow barks. He doesn’t give a shit if Rollins comes home here and now. It has been too long and his cock is standing at full mast, throbbing and wetting the crotch of his pants and threatening to break out into a knot before he can even find a tight hole to bury himself in.

 

Sasha returns, skin glistening, long hair clinging to the sides of his face.

 

Reverently, Rumlow lifts an intricately folded piece of black cloth from the duffel. He slides the duffel and any of its other contents to the floor, eyeing Sasha as he places the fabric beside him and snaps open the fly of his pants. “Come here.”

 

There is no point in disobeying—if Rollins was home and not on a week-long mission in Russia, it would be different. Even if Rollins didn’t stop Rumlow from mating his omega, he would at least keep Rumlow on a short leash and stop him if he got too rough. Without the father of his pups to defend him, Sasha’s job becomes listening to and obeying his 2nd alpha, with the knowledge that the more he fights it, the more severe the consequences become.

 

Rumlow is sitting at the edge of the bed lazily stroking his length, his cock arched upward, and Sasha can smell the desperation and urgency and the _need_ of his arousal. A hand clasps his wrist, forcing him forward to stand in front of him. “Put this on.” Rumlow unfolds the cloth—it is a tee shirt, printed with a round logo with the outline of an eagle and words that read, ‘Shield Academy’.

 

Sasha stiffens, his sad blue eyes flickering. “It’s his, isn’t it.”

 

Rumlow ignores him, once again yanking on the leather leash to pull him down onto his lap. Sasha kneels over as he is forced into the tee shirt. It clings uncomfortably around his swollen chest and is far too small in the middle to wrap around his distended belly. He bites down a whimper and Rumlow groans, planting his face into Sasha’s chest and inhaling.

 

Boomer’s scent springs freely from the shirt, mixed only slightly with the smell of Sasha’s newly washed skin. Rumlow freely breathes it in, letting the familiar smell drag a guttural growl from his throat as he latches on to other side of Sasha’s hips.

 

“No, please,” Sasha wails, tears starting to well as he balls his fists and pulls away weakly. He is dry—as any omega this far along would be—and Rumlow stops just short of forcing him down onto his hardened length.

 

“Fine,” Rumlow spits. His hands trail up to Sasha’s chest. He wishes to god he had the going power to stretch this out—that the fire burning between his legs wasn’t so painfully hot that he can barely breathe. Boomer’s scent surrounds him, now, and he flutters his eyes closed, imagining a whimpering red-head looming above him, writhing in his skillful hands, begging to be bred. His fingers pinch down hard on a budding nipple and warm white liquid springs out freely, earning him a sharp cry from the omega.

 

“Owh…”

 

"Fuck…” Rumlow’s bares down with an authoritative growl, sucking mercilessly as the warm milk fills his mouth. He shudders as the omega chokes down a sob, collecting his hands and planting them behind his back.

 

Boomer would look amazing like this. His red hair splayed out along his shoulder blades, tits sore and swollen with milk from _their pups_ growing in his belly. His milk would be even sweeter, even warmer, flowing from his sensitive nipples and onto Rumlow’s rough tongue as he lapped up every drop and it trailed down in a thin stream down the side of his face.

 

He spits some of the warm fluid into his palm and haphazardly transfers it to the clenched, unwilling ring of muscle between Sasha’s ass cheeks. He lathes it with his fingers, forcing an experimental finger inside and pushing Sasha’s hips back down with reprimanding force when he attempts to wiggle away. “DON’T,” he barks, and Sasha stills.

 

The hole is unforgiving and tight, but at least now it is wet so the tearing should be minimal. Rumlow lines himself up, fingers clamping down on Sasha’s hips as if he’s wrapping his hands around a machete. He thrusts upward with a sharp jerk of his hips, bucking against the tight ring of muscle. Sasha bites his fist to drown out the cry that peels out from his chest.

 

“ _Loosen up,_ ” he growls. “You’re only going to make this harder on yourself.”

 

Boomer would be tight like this too. Probably even tighter, his first few times. And unless he was in heat, Rumlow would have to go ridiculously slow—using his fingers and maybe even his tongue to prep him for the stretch. Heats make omegas nearly impervious to pain—he could force himself in with the kid wailing beneath him, oblivious to the intense pain and stretch and begging for more.

 

“Do you love him?” Sasha chokes out between little breathy gasps. His hole flutters open at last and Rumlow twitches upward, the swollen head of his cock assaulting the barrier and bursting inside. “Mmmh---!” Hot tears spill freely down his cheeks even as he turns his head aside to hide it. He stiffens but does not pull away as Rumlow drives himself upward and in.

 

The sweet sting of the pressure rockets through his spine and soon Rumlow rolls him, flattening Sasha’s back to the bed, his ass hanging off the side as he roughly plows in. “Why—do you always—ask me that?” He digs his calloused hands into the bed, clawing at the covers as he rhythmically pounds into him, his thick cock driving inside.

 

Sasha’s hole flutters, the muscles spasming, his belly twitching in time with his pathetic mewls. “B-b’cause…” He writhes helplessly beneath him, desperate for some semblance of relief from the thick rod splitting him in two. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of love.”

 

Rumlow snickers in spite of himself. “Aw, cry me a fuckin’ river, kid.” The bulbous ring at the base of his dick has already begun to inflate, bristling up against Sasha’s impossibly small walls. Rumlow digs his fingers into his arched shoulders as he forces himself inside. “You think I’m a cold-hearted bastard, is that it?”

 

Sasha’s eyes snap open, glittering and red with tears, his jaw set and defiant despite being split in two on Rumlow’s cock. “I hope you stay far away from him.” The thrusts become hard blows, the sound of his muffled shouts drowned out by the rough slap of skin on skin. His hole spasms against the expanding knot, holding fast and refusing entry. “You don’t deserve him!”

 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Rumlow grinds out each syllable, his breath hot in Sasha’s ear as he rapid-fire slams into him, his knot finally tearing into the defiant little hole and expanding in, past the tight ring of muscle. There’s a wetness dotting the sheets; it’s not their natural slick, but it’s silky and moist and it cuts down on the friction enough for Rumlow to lock in with a dry grunt. “I could have had him, you know. I could have taken him all those years ago and nobody would have been able to stop me. I could have fucked him and bred him and forced him to have my pups. Maybe I should have.”

 

Sasha lets out a pained shiver, his eyes sliding closed and head falling to the bed, hair splayed out beneath him. His body jerks involuntarily at each thrust, his limbs still and lifeless like a cadaver’s.

 

Rumlow is the one shaking, now, his tears falling hot onto Sasha’s chest as he grinds his teeth together. “We all gotta do what we gotta do, Sosh. Even a mindless house-pet like you can understand that.”

 

It isn’t long after and Rumlow is coming, back arched hard and teeth clenched, head aimed towards the ceiling as the massive knot inflates like a balloon and Sasha’s spent hole clamps down, his omega nature taking over, milking out every drop of come Rumlow’s sputtering dick can produce. He rides out his orgasm, his hips and muscles jerking involuntarily at each shuddering wave, a bitten-off cry rumbling in his chest.

 

“You’d better put it back,” Sasha warns softly. Rumlow slithers down to the bed, collecting Sasha’s long, boney body in his powerful arms and turning him to fit beside him as they are locked together for the duration. Sasha protectively touches his middle as if to calm the squirming pups inside of him, swallowing dryly.

 

“Yeah.” Rumlow stares up at the ceiling wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. “Yeah I know. Fuckin’ kids, anyway. They leave that locker room looking like the bad end of a tornado, there’s shit strewn all over the place.”

 

“I want to meet him,” Sasha mumurs, his fingers absent-mindedly sweeping at a stubborn strand of hair that hangs in his face.

 

Rumlow reaches up to help, ignoring the flinch it earns him, pushing the silky lock back and tucking it behind his ear. “There’s a tournament coming up in about four weeks,” he offers. “Maybe Rollins could bring you. It could be, I don’t know, like a date or something.”

 

Sasha lets out a bitter laugh. “A date?”

 

“C’mon, don’t be like that. He’s crazy about you. You _know_ that.”

 

“Crazy and love are not the same thing.” He shifts again, turning himself to angle away from Rumlow, but lets out a pained gasp and grabs his stomach.

 

Rumlow glances awkwardly down at the spattered red stains on the sheets beneath them. He’d say he was sorry, but what good would it do when he knows he’ll be doing the same damn thing a few days from now. “You okay?”

 

Sasha bites his bottom lip, nodding sharply. He eyes Rumlow through the twinge, with a sympathetic expression as if Rumlow was some hurt dog beyond saving, barely clinging to life. “We all have to do what we have to do,” he whispers.

 

* * * * *

 

The Academy is off-limits to students at night; in fact, there are barriers and security systems in place to assure compliance. And when your students are training to be spies or assassins, that’s really saying something. Leo’s a student-teacher of sorts, so it helps (a lot) that he has keys.

 

“You ready for this?” He swipes the key card and flashes a grin at Boomer, who stares up at the looming building. It is illuminated with spotlights on the outside, but it’s black as night inside when the door hisses open.

 

“Are _you_ ready’s more like it,” Boomer says with a sneer, chucking his shoulder into Leo’s as he pushes past.

 

They scale the spiral staircase, both laughing as they yank each other back and clamor for control. The first few hallways lead them to their base-class gym. The sparring mats have been rolled up and put away, so they work on quickly rolling one out, giggling like regular idiots as they go. “Shit, you grabbed an old one,” Leo murmurs, trying in vain to smooth down an area of white tape that has peeled up.

 

“ _You_ grabbed it!,” he hisses in reply. There are most likely students working as security guards on campus, so making too much unneeded noise might not go unnoticed. One laid out to their satisfaction, the rivals meet head-to-head on the mat, toeing the center line.

 

Leo is grinning fiercely as he throws off his jacket. Boomer gives each of his arms a stretch before widening his stance and locking eyes with his target.

 

“So, without the whistle, how do we start?”

 

“That’s easy. Since you’re the lighter of the two of us, you can have first—“

 

Boomer lunges at him silently, cutting off the sentence as his fists connect with Leo’s shoulder blades, one leg coming up to kick his rippling stomach. Leo spins out before his foot can connect, landing a blow between Boomer’s shoulder blades and knocking the air out of his lungs. Boomer slides away, gasping for breath as he rounds his opponent, eyes searching for the next opening.

 

“Come on, Princess.” Leo taps his chest, throwing his chin and a superior smile Boomer’s way.

 

Boomer thinks better of the situation. It’s clear that Leo has something planned and wants Boomer to attack first, opening the vulnerable points on his body and landing whatever hit he has already formulated in his mind. He straightens his back, giving the edges of his tee shirt a hard tug…and waits.

 

Leo cocks his head. “Smart.” His legs fly out in a powerful round-house kick that miss Boomer’s jaw my mere centimeters and connect with the back of his hand. The hit sends a stinging sensation shooting through his arm but he drops, kicking at the one leg still planted on the ground.

 

Leo’s leg buckles, all 6 foot 4 inches of sinewy muscle toppling the much smaller red-head, pinning his hands above his head as his body keeps Boomer in place.

 

Boomer lets out a frustrated bark, jabbing his elbows towards Leo’s head, as they are currently the only thing on him that he can move.

 

“Shhh, shh,” Leo hushes, his free hand trailing down the side of his face, sweeping back red tendrils of matted hair . “It’s done, Boom. It’s over.”

 

Boomer growls again, every ounce of muscle straining against the weight of the body on top as Leo captures his mouth with roaming lips and muffles the cry. Their bellies crush together, lungs burning, panting, as Leo slides a knee between his legs and fits his hips in between them. Boomer lets out a shocked whimper, his lips parting involuntarily, devoured by the dark lion above. He counts the number in his head. “That’s two,” he murmurs against Leo’s mouth. He can feel the skin tighten into a wide smile but Leo doesn’t pull back.

 

“One as promised and the other for you trying to kill me.”

 

Boomer’s hands wiggle together, trapped in Leo’s long fingers. They burn into his skin ever so slightly, and the pressure feels good. The kisses trail down, little smacking sounds reverberating where his roaming mouth alights, and his lips are incredibly soft and full. His breath tickles and warms his skin, making heat rush to Boomer’s face.

 

The hips between his legs are jagged, the jean material tight and unforgiving as Leo ruts up against them. A hand makes it way underneath his tee shirt, fingers scraping his stomach and planting little pinches. “Owh!”

 

Leo chuckles, his face happily buried in Boomer’s hair. “Don’t know if I should let you go.” A desperate groan rumbles out. Boomer raises his leg just faintly and pulls back when he feels the hardening rod in Leo’s pants. Leo’s eyes flutter closed, fighting back the urge to drive harder against him. His cock twitches impatiently and he ignores it, settling his hips into Boomer’s and returning to his mouth for a long, wet kiss.

 

Suddenly, a hand that is not his is pressing against his trapped dick and Leo jumps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck!”

 

“Sorry,” Boomer breathes, but his fingers curiously explore the impressive mound, and Leo pulls away, resting on his free hand to separate their bodies and give Boomer more access.

 

“You…” Leo licks his lips, one hand reaching down to his fly. “You wanna see it?”

 

Boomer’s crystal green eyes flash questioningly up at Leo and he thinks he could just die at that very moment. “Can…can I?”

 

 _Yes yes oh fuck yes jesus fucking Christ god fuck yes yes yes MINE!_   “Sure,” Leo breathes. His hand unclasps the one wrist that hasn’t wiggled free and unbuttons his fly.

 

Boomer’s phone chimes, instantly disrupting the mood. “Shit,” he murmurs, rolling away and grabbing his jacket. He digs the phone out even as Leo grabs his shoulders, kissing his neck, trying to coerce him back into his arms.

 

“C’mon, ignore it…”

 

“Nah. I’ve got to get it. Unless you want a QuinJet hanging over our heads in about three seconds.”

 

“Hazards of being Cap America’s kid?”

 

Boomer gives him an apologetic smile. “Something like that.”

 

>Message from: Uncle Rum’s Phone<

>Message to: Boomer<

>GET UR ASS HOME<

 

“It’s just Rumlow,” he mutters. He could spend time wondering how Rumlow knows he’s not hanging out with his Dads back at the apartment, or…. Boomer’s face falls, his eyes glossing over the words momentarily before turning back into the powerful arms that wrap around him, coyly draping his hand across Leo’s back. Leo shudders and pulls him in for another long kiss.

 

“The fuck does _that_ guy want?”

 

Boomer groans against his mouth. “He’s my fucked-up Uncle. Who knows.”

 

The phone chimes again.

 

>Message from: Uncle Rum’s Phone<

>Message to: Boomer<

>HOME.NOW.<

 

Boomer pulls away with a groan, out of Leo’s grasp. “No…” Leo whines, pulling at his hand. “Stay.”

 

“I can’t. My parents are probably freaking out or something.” Boomer shrugs his jacket on.

 

Reluctantly, Leo comes to a stand. He is far too hot to don his coat, so he just tucks it under his arm and swings his free one over Boomer’s shoulders. “So, how about that kiss though, right?”

 

Boomer shrugs, hiding a smirk. “Yeah, it was okay I guess.”

 

Leo’s eyebrows shoot up into his bangs. “Just okay? You _guess_?”

 

“Told you,” Boomer adds as they make their way back down the winding staircase. “I’m not your typical omega.”

 

“I know.” Leo pulls him back when they reach the main door, spinning him into his arms. Boomer’s scowl does nothing to deter him from stealing another deep kiss, pushing him backwards into the glass with a groan. “That’s why I want you to be _my omega.”_

 

Boomer pushes him away roughly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and grinning darkly. “Yer going to have to do a lot better than that.”

 

“Challenge accepted,” Leo murmurs with a grin as he watches Boomer leave through the double doors. That deliciously plump ass is going to be worth the trouble.

 

* * * * *

 

From the shadowy recesses of the hallway, a figure watches, a Shield Academy shirt balled into his tight fist. He scowls darkly as the little speed-bike makes its way out of the parking lot and back onto the street.  

 

* * * * *


	3. Committed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here, so I’ll cut to the chase. We need to bring in a very dangerous, high-profile vigilante to help us with a certain mission. Now, I am not at liberty to discuss the ins and outs of said mission—but it has come to my attention that you possess a certain set of skills that, while unorthodox, could be useful in bringing this person in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of smut in this chapter, guys. But it's setting up for...well...you'll see ;)

Bucky is fairly certain that Steve is about to wear some Size 13 burn marks into the carpet. He worries on his thumbnail as he paces, stealing glances at his watch every few minutes when he doesn’t think Bucky is looking. Bucky has tried every attempt he can think of to peel his husband away from the door; everything from feigned interest in the latest new releases on TV to offering to make him his favorite muffins (raspberry yogurt) has failed. Even the lure of sex can’t break Captain America’s iron resolve.

 

Bucky pushes down the tendril of concern that threatens to unravel inside of him every so often; Boomer is not only over eighteen and well past the age of grounding, he is also legally an adult who doesn’t have to tell his parents a damn thing about where he is or when he might return home. Bucky’s eyes fall to the crayon drawings that peek out from behind the couch where he sits; he couldn’t bring himself to erase the “artwork” so lovingly drawn by chubby little hands all those years ago; two stick figures, one in blue with a red circle in its hand, one in red with a few streaks of brown by its head, their skeletal fingers crisscrossed over one another and labeled: “DaD aNd DAadDy”. He smiles down at it and sighs when he hears heavy footsteps stop just short of the couch.

 

“I’m going after him.”

 

Bucky’s eyes flit upwards in a half-roll. “He’ll be home any minute. Besides, Steve, he’s a—“

 

Steve raises a hand sharply, interrupting the thought. “Nope. No, Buck. Don’t give me any of that ‘he’s-an-adult ‘ shit. Please. He is my son and I am going after him.”

 

Steve makes it to the front door, his hand on the handle when Bucky calls after him, “How do you intend on finding him?”

 

“Knew I should have installed that tracker,” Steve mutters. He swipes his jacket off the rack on afterthought and swings open the door. A red mess of hair slams head-on into his chest.

 

“Oof.”

 

“Boomer!” Steve’s massive arms encompass the much shorter kid as he lets out an exasperated sigh of relief. “Good Lord where have you been?”

 

“Dad, stop it,” Boomer grumbles, attempting in vain to squeeze past the muscle-bound blond. “M’fine. Really.” His words do nothing to deter a thorough petting, Steve’s wide palm smoothing his hair back with so much force he might peel Boomer’s forehead right off.

 

“How’d it go?” Bucky peels his son away from the unwanted coddling, casually draping an arm around his shoulders as he leads him into the room.

 

“How’d what go?” Boomer’s brows furrow deeply, clouding his glass-blue/green eyes.

 

“Your—ya know—your date.”

 

“It wasn’t a _date,_ you guys. God! Would you please get off my ass? M’tired.”

 

Steve’s mouth drops open, no doubt in preparation of a thorough speech of exactly how ungrateful Boomer is being and how worried his Dads both were, but Bucky stops him with a raised hand and a forgiving smile. “Go on,” Bucky offers, but not without giving Boomer a crack on the ass with his flesh hand as he escapes down the hallway. He folds his arms across his chest and stares momentarily as the door closes sharply, on the verge of being a slam. “He has so much of you in him I want to choke you both.”

 

“I’m just glad he’s home, I guess.” Steve’s defenses dissolve as he drags Bucky backwards into his arms, his broad back connecting with Steve’s wide, warm chest.

 

Bucky lets out a satisfied hum. “Yeah. Until _next_ time.”

* * * * *

Boomer flops belly-down on his bed and opens his phone to read the flashing message.

 

_> >You have -1- new voicemail message. Left at 4:45 pm.<<_

_> >This is a message for Bailey. Bailey, this is Nurse Roan from Doctor Stregen's office. I got your message about renewing your prescription for Andrajan. I’m sorry, but as you were already informed, Andrajan is a powerful heat suppressant. In order to continue using it, you will need to undergo one full, healthy heat cycle every two years. I understand that your heats are more severe than many of the cases we’ve seen here at the office, and your father did send us a letter confirming your enrollment at Shield Academy, but unfortunately this is a medical necessity in order to continue the use of this or any other heat suppressant. Now, I have called your prescription into the pharmacy and it will be available 2 weeks from today’s date. You can always call us with questions but my suggestion to you,  as a nurse and as your friend,  would be to stay home and lay low for the duration of your heat. According to our records, you should have taken your last available pill yesterday. You may not feel any symptoms for the following day or so, but please know that when your heat hits—and it will—it is imperative that you are in a safe environment with only people you trust. I’m sorry. Bye.”_

 

Boomer nods his head once, bitterly, before throwing the phone to the other side of the room and flipping over onto his back to stare up at the black ceiling. What choice does he have? He can’t miss class—especially not for something so obviously _omega_ —he would never live it down. His eyes flutter close as he raises his fingers to his lips, still puffy and tingling with the ghost sensation of Leo’s mouth so expertly devouring them. His scent still lingers, just a bit, and if Boomer pulls his shirt up over his nose and inhales deeply, he can almost make out the scent of Leo’s arousal, too, like the deepest of dark chocolates and a lava of hot caramel. He shamelessly reaches between his legs and squeezes down, bringing out a sharp whimper that he has to bite down on to muffle, his pants tight and damp from his own touch.

 

Maybe if he had to, maybe if he needed it, Leo would make a pretty good alpha. But no way is Boomer having anybody’s babies—he had already made up his mind about that long ago.

 

* * * * *

 

Leo’s long legs easily close the distance between himself and Boomer as they make their way through the Academy doors that morning. “Hey, gorgeous,” he whispers in Boomer’s ear, a wide grin crossing his face.

 

Boomer slides him a scowl and huffs his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder. “Fuck off, Maroni.”

 

“Oooh, that’s harsh. Especially after the good time I showed you last night…”

 

“It wasn’t a _date,”_ Boomer hisses. He stalks to the locker room with Leo trotting to catch up, throwing open his locker door and stuffing his bag inside.

 

Leo throws his hands up defensively. “Never said it was.” He ducks his head low, following the lines of Boomer’s face with an attentive glance. “Hey, you okay?”

 

“Never been better.” Boomer pulls out a hairbrush and unwraps a thick tie from around the handle, securing his thick red mass of hair into a ponytail and kicking off his tennis shoes. They get piled onto the bag along with his Academy sweatshirt, which he peels off in one fluid movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Leo has backed off and is now undressing a few lockers away. He watches the dragon on his side undulate to the movement of ribs and muscle as Leo trades his thick leather jacket for a sleek gray tee-shirt that rests just above his hips and does nothing to hide his broad chest and shoulders. Boomer feels the heat returning to his cheeks and looks away before Leo can notice.

 

Too late—Leo notices. His sly grin returns and he slides down the bench until his hip bumps against Boomer’s shoe. “Hey…did you just check me out?”

 

Boomer’s face loses all color but red and he looks away. “What—? N-no.” He yanks the shoelaces of his tactical boots tight, maybe a little too tight, his eyes aimed straight towards the ground. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

Katie—whether or not she knows it—quickly swoops in for the rescue, wrapping her impossibly muscular arm around Leo’s neck and dragging him backwards. “Come on, lover-boy.” Leo’s nose wrinkles up at the too-close proximity of the other alpha and he scampers away, letting out a disgruntled growl as he follows her out of the locker room.

 

Roll-call comes and the recruits line up, shoulder-to-shoulder for inspection. Boomer falls into line directly behind Leo, and catches a glimpse of two agents standing in the far left corner. They are dressed in gray suits and sunglasses, their conversation with the Head Professor muffled at best. The taller of the two is a woman with dark brown hair pulled up into a bun at the top of her head. She glances his way and a suddenly needles are shooting down his spine and he slams his eyes to the floor. “Who…who are _they?”_

 

“Dunno,” Leo murmurs over his shoulder, turning his head ever so slightly Boomer’s direction behind him. 

 

Boomer glances up again, and the lady agent is still looking at him, only this time she has added a pointing finger, asking the Professor something. He nods and the agents share affirming glances and they walk over, ever closer to Boomer’s spot on the floor.

 

“Bailey Barnes?,” the woman asks.

 

She is a beta—her scent is mild in comparison to a regular alpha’s but her stern body language and her authoritative voice compensate for her reproductive affiliation. She stares him down intently, her eyes burning him away to a tiny charred husk.

 

“Yes?”

 

“My name is Agent Starr. This is my partner, Agent Weston. We have been asked to pull you from today’s class—“

 

Boomer’s heart sinks. They found out, oh god they found out. How could they have known? Boomer had been positive that he’d at least have today to practice and get in a few assignments before his heat began showing. Leo is glancing back at him, eyebrows quirked upward, and Boomer feels like he could just die here and now. He isn’t feeling _anything_ —how could they tell he was off his meds? It had taken everything he had— _everything_ —to get in despite being an omega—and no thanks to the dumbass doctors and their bullshit rules, he would be sacrificing the integrity of his grades, his reputation and everything he has worked for all due to some stupid biological urge he couldn’t control.

 

“—meet with Director Fury.”

 

Boomer suddenly glances up at that last statement, realizing only then that he had missed what was probably the most important point. His eyelashes flutter as his brain does a few backflips and the agent clears her throat, staring him down with an annoyed expression that says he’s _already_ not exactly impressing her.

 

“Boomer,” the Professor hisses, pushing him out of line with a firm hand. “Well? _Go on._ ”

 

Boomer’s mouth hangs open stupidly as he follows the agents, sliding one last awkward glance back to Leo, who’s giving him an equally lost look. Reluctantly, he stares ahead at the towering shoulders of the agent in front of him as they walk, obediently falling into line as the glass doors hiss shut behind him.

 

A limousine with blacked-out windows and armored side-panels waits for them when the three enter the parking garage. The taller agent swings the last door open and purple lights awaken inside, spilling over the patent leather seats and illuminating small security monitors on the ceiling on either side. Boomer staggers forward, the knot in his stomach turning to butterflies. This is real. He is going to meet Fury. _The_ Director Fury. But why..?

 

The shorter agent speaks for the first time when they all slide in to the limo and the car peels out of the underground lot. “Water?” He pushes a hidden button on the seat between them and a glass decanter slides out, illuminated by more purple lights. He plucks out a matching tumbler and pours until its half-full, offering it to him with a genuine smile.

 

Boomer bites his bottom lip and takes it, murmuring a “thanks” and taking a wary sip. The man is now close enough to smell, and he too is a beta. Boomer doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. It’s no secret that he is an omega, and if Shield has so much as an inkling that he is about to enter his heat cycle, they would be smart to play it safe and have him escorted by the least likely to break protocol and cause undue stress…and being that there aren’t any _omega_ agents in Shield…

 

The car ride seems like a waste, being that they most likely could have walked faster. A few blocks down is the Avengers Tower, where they turn in. Boomer almost expects to run into one or both of his Dads, but almost as if the agents could read his mind, he is ushered out of the vehicle and onto an elevator towards the back of the tower. After a long (and silent) ride, the elevator dings and the doors hiss open to reveal a room made almost entirely of towering windows, the light streaming in through all sides, illuminating a single, unassuming desk at the center of the room. Boomer feels out of place, standing beside the impeccably dressed agents in his worn-out Recruit fatigues and navy-blue Academy tank top at the highest room in the World-renowned Academy tower. Sitting atop the sleek desk is the man himself, the Agent that every Shield Recruit dreams of serving.

 

He has met Director Fury once before, so his Dads tell him. About fifteen years ago, his Dad had mistakenly determined he was old enough to behave himself at an office party, where the blond-headed almost-six-year-old had taken off after Tony Stark’s sweeper-droid and ran smack-dab into the long legs of the most mysterious man in the world. Fury had grinned down at him, and even as Steve apologized profusely for his son’s misbehavior, he had plucked him up from the ground and flashed a wide, toothy grin, sitting him on his hip. “Cool!” Boomer had grabbed for the eye mask and Fury moved his head, deflecting his reach without losing an ounce of the luster in his smile.

 

“He’s got quick reflexes, this one!” Fury had said.

 

Now, the lines on the man’s face have settled under his cheek-bones and white stubble peppers his side-burns, but he is tall and stoic and just as fierce-looking as ever. Fury quirks one eyebrow as they approach, the male agent placing a hand on Boomer’s shoulder and gently pushing him forward. “Thought you’d be…blond,” Fury muses.

 

Boomer self-consciously runs a hand through his red locks, shrugging. “Erm, yeah. It…changed to this about five years ago. When I…”  

“When you entered your first heat,” Fury finishes and Boomer can feel a strong blush settling on his cheeks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Fury’s hands are clasped together, one bent leg swung up on the desk. He is hunched forward ever so slightly, as if to make himself appear less intimidating, and it doesn’t work, at least not to Boomer. Boomer feels like Fury could stare into his soul and read his thoughts. And with all of Fury’s knowledge of espionage and interrogation, it’s not a far stretch of the imagination. “Well, Boomer—“

 

A shock of surprise skitters down his spine. Fury doesn’t address him like the others—calls him by his nickname instead of “Bailey” or “Mr. Barnes”, and it’s uncomfortably familiar.

 

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you here, so I’ll cut to the chase. We need to bring in a very dangerous, high-profile vigilante to help us with a certain mission. Now, I am not at liberty to discuss the ins and outs of said mission—“ (Meaning it is classified information and Boomer is not authorized or worthy of such information) “—but it has come to my attention that you possess a certain set of skills that, while unorthodox,  could be useful in bringing this person in.”

 

Boomer’s eyes narrow. “All respect, Mr. Fury, what ‘skills’?”

 

“Well, let’s forget for a moment that your parents are Captain America and the unmatched Winter Soldier. You are currently top of your class in hand-to-hand combat, deflective techniques and negotiating, as well as having placed 3rd in Regional competitive Krav Maga, which is especially impressive considering that you are a…”

 

“An omega,” Boomer finishes.

 

Fury nods. “Exactly.”

 

Now extremely skeptical, Boomer folds his arms across his chest and cocks a hip. “And I’m a student at Shield U, two years away from graduating, and you want me to go after a dangerous vigilante…so, he’s on the good-guy side but he refuses to work with us, or won’t come in on his own or what?”

 

Fury rises from his place on the desk. Boomer fights down the urge to curl into a ball as the towering man places a wide hand on his shoulder, looking deep into his eyes with the one remaining one he has left. “The day you entered Shield academy you took an oath of loyalty, to the Agency and to the people of this city to do everything in your power to serve and protect.” That ball at the pit of Boomer’s stomach is now doing backflips, but he steels his gaze, his eyebrows furrowing as the taller man stares him down. “I need to know you still honor that oath.”

 

“Of course I do.” Unlike his Dad, Boomer is not one for long speeches about justice and The American Way. If there is one thing his Uncle Rumlow has taught him, it’s that sometimes the Bigger Picture is the smallest one—get in, get out, get on with the mission. Fury hesitates for a moment, as if he is expecting Boomer to elaborate. When he remains silent, Fury glances behind Boomer at the two agents, giving them a dismissive nod.

 

The sound of footsteps disappear and the door hisses closed and Fury holds him an arm’s length away, his look almost…impressed. He lets out a slow sigh and squeezes his shoulder. “Look, kid. I am a black man in charge of the world’s most powerful Counter-Terrorism Agency. If there’s one thing I cannot tolerate, it’s labels. But I respect you, and out of that respect I won’t lie to you. This mission is dangerous and has to be kept secret, especially from your parents. I cannot guarantee your safety, but Frank Castle is—“

 

“Frank Castle?” Boomer’s heart just about stops. “You mean, the Punisher?” 

 

Fury nods. “Yes. I know if I send my toughest agents in, he might not kill them, but he will certainly wipe the floor with them before telling them to go to hell and get the fuck out of his Kitchen.”

 

“What do you think he’ll do with me?” Boomer stammers, taking a step back as his head begins to float towards the ceiling. “I’m not—I mean, I can’t—I’m not a—“

 

“You’re an _omega_ , kid.”

 

The realization hits Boomer in the chest like a Mack truck. His eyelashes flutter as his brain throws itself into reverse. “You…you want me to sleep with him?”

 

“I want you to _persuade_ him. I don’t know if he’s mated, or if he’ll even let it go that far, but he has a soft spot for the weaker—sorry—for omegas and for young kids and you’re both.”

 

Boomer suddenly feels like he is going to hurl his breakfast all over Fury’s shiny black shoes. _No, no no. No I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I can’t…I won’t!_ He raises his head slowly, icy blue eyes locked on to Fury’s. “When?”

 

“Tonight.”

 

Boomer swallows. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Good. I want you to bring an escort, someone with a level head, someone you trust. They will keep an eye on your position but stay far enough away to avoid being detected. We need Castle brought in by tomorrow night, if not sooner.” He slides him a pamphlet with a low-key resort on the edge of Hell’s kitchen. Inside are two room keys and a black Visa card. “Everything you need is at your disposal. I know you won’t let me down.”

 

Boomer turns around. His feet feel as if they are being controlled by one of Uncle Tony’s iron man suits as he makes his way to the door. What the fuck is he thinking. What did he just agree to. What is he doing…

 

* * * * *

_That night…_

 

>Message to: Leo<

>Message From: Boomer’s Phone<

 

>Be downstairs in 2 minutes. I just told the parents I am spending the night at Noa’s.<

 

Leo flicks off his phone and stares up at the apartment complex. He’s not sure how he feels about this. He can deal with fending off Boomer’s crazy old Uncle Rumlow, but Frank-Fucking-Castle..? He supposes he should just be grateful Boomer chose _him_ as his partner for this mission, and not Katie. Hell, she would have been in Boomer’s pants in five seconds flat for sure.

 

As promised, Boomer is bounding down the steps seconds later, swinging his duffel across his shoulders and slipping onto the back of the bike. Leo lets out a contented, possessive growl as Boomer’s hands slip around his waist and underneath his leather jacket. Leo licks his lips as he walks his bike to the end of the street (no way is he going to be blowing their cover by blasting the hefty engine of his motorcycle and alerting Boomer’s parents.) Leo’s heart skips a beat in his chest as they pass the first block and he kicks the bike into gear and the engine roars to life; this is it. His first mission. And his first night with Boomer.

 

* * * * *

 

Hell’s Kitchen is thirteen times smaller than Manhattan but it’s twice as busy—the side-streets are packed with girls in short shorts and guys in baggy jeans. Partiers line up outside clubs whose walls thump with the muffled bass and the distant sound of sirens wail in one continuous song.  “Guess a place like this needs a Punisher,” Leo mutters as they dismount. The hotel is small and unassuming—not old but not newly built, not the biggest but certainly not the smallest, parked on the edge of the 10-blocks that make up Hell’s Kitchen.

 

The front desk has already vacated for the night, or maybe they are just behind the counter passed out—either way there is no one at the desk and that suits them just fine. They ascend the elevator five stories to the room and slip inside without so much as a peek from other residents. Boomer stops short of the one king mattress, a hard blush settling on his cheeks. “I can uh…I can sleep on the pull-out,” Leo offers.

 

“No need,” Boomer says flatly, dumping his bag on the zany 70’s-patterned comforter and pulling out his brush and a bag of shower supplies. “I’m going to take a quick shower and then we can check out a few of the places on the map.”

 

“Boomer.” Leo clamps a hand down on Boomer’s bicep, drawing him in close enough that he can feel his warm breath going through his tee shirt. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

 

Boomer chews on his bottom lip before saying quietly, “I know.”

 

Leo dips his head low, touching their foreheads together and nuzzling his nose. “Look. I know we’re not, you know, a ‘thing’. But…”

 

“But you wish we were.” Boomer’s eyes flicker in the soft lighting of the room, his expression gentle but unreadable.

 

Leo lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding in. “Yeah.” He pinches Boomer’s chin softly, angling his head up and brushing their lips together.

 

“Don’t,” Boomer murmurs, pulling away with a sharp breath. Leo’s heart floats back down from the ceiling and creeps slowly back into his chest between the fourth and fifth rib bones and he feels the pinch. “I can’t have another scent on me. I’ve gotta’ be clean.”

 

Leo nods painfully. “Yeah. I…I know.” He pulls away with a hard wince and watches Boomer as he walks to the bathroom door and the lock slides closed with a “snick” sound. He sinks to the bed and spends the next few moments staring blankly at the opposite wall.

 

* * * * *

 

>The store owner says he hasn’t seen him for at least three days, which is unusual.<

 

Boomer’s voice comes over the earpiece. It’s scratchy but audible, and Leo crouches on the ledge of the building opposite the Pawn shop. It seems to be some mechanics-garage-turned-diner, and suddenly Leo can appreciate why a Good Ol’ Boy like Frank Castle would pick a place like Hell’s Kitchen to call home.  “The owner say whether or not he had any goods under-the-counter, so to speak?”

 

>I didn’t ask. Why would he tell me something like that? He just thinks I’m Frank’s nephew looking for him.<

 

“Good point.” Leo checks the map on his phone, zooming to the next target on the map. “Next up is Heavy Metal Buyers.”

 

>Nice name. Yeah, I got it up on my map.<

 

Leo laughs. “I’ll head just south of there. There’s a place called the Rose Hotel, I’ll pick a vantage point and radio you when I’m in place.”

 

>10-4 good buddy.<

 

“Cute,” Leo snorts. He hefts his sniper rifle on his shoulder—sure, he’s not _supposed_ to bring artillery on this mission, but he’ll need it, especially if the ballistic-vest-wearing uber-alpha decides to make a move on _his omega_. Besides, the scope gives him just that much more of a view of any possible dangers.

 

He had argued with Boomer about his choice of clothing; skin-tight jeans and tee shirt with a hatch pattern ripped out of the back to show off his milky-white skin and the few dark brown freckles that dot his shoulders. It’s the ideal outfit for this particular mission, designed to drive any alpha in the vicinity bat-shit crazy, and Boomer smells _so incredibly good_ lately and _that’s_ a major problem!

 

Leo huffs it to his next destination, working on his parkour moves as he does, flitting from rooftop to rooftop, just two blocks away. Boomer hasn’t been able to make it from one marked point to the next without being heckled by some dirty alpha and Leo makes a promise to himself to hunt down and personally introduce each and every one of them to his fists when the mission is over.  He gnashes his teeth together, letting out a guttural growl as a lanky brunet with a neck that’s wider than his head hip-checks Boomer, saying something that Leo can’t quite make out. Boomer makes him proud, though, raising a fist and shouting at the guy, (probably asking him if he wants a knuckle-sandwich or calling him a little bitch) and the alpha shies away, holding both hands up defensively as he walks on. “That’s my boy,” Leo chides into the radio. Boomer laughs on the other end.

 

The hallway is long and dark and quiet; just perfect for Leo’s stakeout. He sets his rifle up on the end of the window sill, peering down at the street below and the little shop with the purple neon sign that flashes with the words “Heavy Metal Pawn”.  He watches Boomer slip inside before tilting his gun up to the edge and peering through the scope.

 

“Fuckin’ newbies.” The voice behind him makes him jolt and loose the gun. He wheels around just in time to see a masked figure bring a heavy boot down on his chest. Leo grabs it, twisting the boot with all his might and knocking the assailant to the floor. He scrambles for his knife and screams at the intense burn and popping of bones as the man steps on his fingers. His hurls the elbow of his free arm into his groin, bringing him down into a leg-lock and rolling on top.

 

His knuckles connect with the mask, sending it tumbling across the floor. Leo blinks, stunned. “Rumlow?”

 

“Like I said,” Rumlow remarks, his knee going up into Leo’s stomach, “Fuckin’ newbies.” He rolls out from underneath as the groaning recruit clutches his middle with his injured hand and reaches the elevator door, tearing it open with powered gloves and grabbing Leo’s ankle.

 

“—The FUCK?” Leo snags the carpet with his one good hand, clamoring for something, _anything_ to hold on to as he is torn across the floor. He flips onto his back and kicks at the hands that rapidly change position.

 

Rumlow chuckles, slightly out of breath and grinning from ear to ear as one final throw has the kid flying over the mouth of the open shaft and landing at the bottom with a _CRACK_.

 

* * * * *

 

It hurts. Everything hurts. Everything burns, and it burns worse when he tries to breathe out. No, it burns worse breathing in. Everything burns.

 

Something red and wet runs down over his eyes and no matter how he blinks or squints he just can’t seem to focus. He stares up at the lone, flickering light of the doorway several stories up and the shadowy figure in the center of it, hefting _his_ sniper rifle onto his shoulder and grinning down at him, a dangling wire in his hand.

 

Leo scrambles for his earpiece. He can feel his body failing and if he can just—he touches his ear with his one working arm and his eyes flash at the sudden realization hits him. “The fuck—“ he coughs, gasping as something wet fills his lungs and fluid trickles out of his mouth.

 

Rumlow shoves the wire deep into his pocket. “Shh, hush princess. I wouldn’t waste your breath. An ambulance’ll be here for you any minute. Poor kid. You must have lost your footing.” Rumlow mock-winces as he inspects the rifle in the air, turning it over in his hand. “Though, you might have a hard time explaining all this nice tactical equipment you got here.” He empties the bullets from the rifle onto the floor before tossing it down after him. Leo cringes as the rifle bounces left and right off the adjacent walls before clattering into a crumpled mess on the concrete beside him. “You better just pray they get here before anyone needs to check the basement.”  

 

* * * * *

 

Shield Agent Protocol handbook, section 432: Article 18: Paragraph 4 states that in the event of loss of communication between one or more agents, head to Base or the rendezvous point as soon as possible and maintain cover.

 

Boomer back-tracks his steps to the hotel, his heart beating fast and his headache beating even harder. He knew to expect his heat to come on at some point in the day, but had been hoping and praying that it might hold off until he could get home and suffer in silence at home with a giant tub of ice cream and a dildo the size of a small eggplant. He guesses, in hindsight, that the stress of his teammate suddenly going AWOL has something to do with it, too. He clutches his stomach and whimpers as another wave hits him, bracing himself against the wall as he inches forward. The light of the hotel is in view, and miraculously he has been able to make it this far without any further harassment from any brain-dead alphas.

 

“Fuck…come on, stupid _body_!” He jams the radio button down again, as a sudden reprieve from the heat hits and he makes a run for it. “Leo…where are you? Leo? _Leo_!”

 

He hits his knees just past the hotel door, glittering with sweat and pressing his hand to his lower stomach. Strong arms haul him up, and at first nothing registers besides the grateful feeling of having a wide chest to fall against.

 

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Rumlow smooths his hair back away from his face with calloused hands. “I’m here.”

 

Boomer shakes his head, trying to clear his heat-addled thoughts long enough to focus on just *who* is standing in front of him. “Rumlow?”

 

“Yeah, sweetie. You’re okay. Everything’s okay now. A’right?”

 

Boomer would answer, but the overwhelming scent of _alpha_ is overpowering his every thought and the safety and security of his arms washes over him like a tidal wave, taking him under.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Press Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boomer jerks up suddenly, the back side of his hand connecting with Rumlow’s cheek and tearing open a small gash over the bone. “GO! I don’t NEED you, you worthless pile of shit! What the fuck is your PROBLEM?! You want me, or you don’t want me? You follow me around like I’m your fucking property and the moment—THE SECOND—I have a shot with someone I like, I mean, I really, really like—you have to ruin that, too? I mean, what is it, Brock? You don’t want me, or you just don’t want me to be happy?”

_A certain truth, and, never nice:_

_Every joy comes with a price_

_And when at last the bill comes due_

_You’ll wish that Hell would take you, too._

* * * * *

 

For all he knows, he’s at the bottom of an endless pit. He is standing in a darkened hallway, chains rattling on the concrete floor, shackles binding each of his ankles to the person on either side of him. They are in a long line—breathless, naked, shivering-cold, and afraid. The truck that brought them here, that took them from their home and from their Mothers and Fathers, is long gone now. He hides in his long hair, thankful for the shred of privacy it provides. He is just as scared as the rest, but one would never know it to look at him. He is standing stark-still, his downward gaze emotionless. A blinding light buzzes on above their heads, bathing them in white and casting shadows beneath their feet on the floor.

 

A man in a white laboratory coat enters and addresses the armed guard beside the door. He is speaking in a foreign language. The guard nods sharply when he finishes speaking and turns on one heel and leaves, presumably to retrieve whatever it was the man requested. His voice is soft and pleasant but the lines of his face are hard and his steel grey eyes are set deeply into his skull, his jaw jutting authoritatively forward as he steps into the light and closer to the long chain of captives. His lab coat is unbuttoned down to his waist, revealing a finely woven green sweater beneath. His slicked-back brown hair smells like the finest of hair products, and his clean-shaven face is devoid of even the slightest freckle. He looks like a very angry doll, a taxidermied human with skin stretched too tightly over his square jaw.

 

He stops at the first captive—a small blond who is shaking like a wet poodle, his eyes fixed to the spot of floor between his feet. Long fingers grasp hold of the back of the boy’s short hair, yanking his head back and producing a frightened little squeak. “Look at me.”

 

As if the boy could understand what the man had demanded, his eyes flutter up gradually as he gains the courage, his nostrils flaring, chest heaving, gasping for breath.

 

“Name.”

 

“ _IM’YA!,”_ A guard barks the translation behind him and the boy shudders.

 

“A-Andriye Bors,” he stammers.

 

 The man turns his head in his hand, this way and that, glancing down only briefly at the rest of him before releasing him and moving on to the next.

 

“ _IM’YA!”_ The guard shouts the command again as his hand goes to the next captive’s chin, repeating the process.

 

The fourteenth time it’s his turn. The man’s hands are ice-cold and smooth like polished glass—he doubts that the man even has fingerprints. He steels his gaze, his sea-blue eyes burning defiantly into the clinical gaze of the lab-coated man. He growls a little as his head is forced roughly to the side, the long tendrils of his hair whipping against his shoulders at the motion. Perhaps it is just his imagination, but the man seems to linger longer than he did with the captives before him, and the edges of his mouth pull into a tight smile.

 

“ _IM’YA!”_ Snaps the guard.

 

He bites down on his lip, weighing his options. What would it matter, whether or not he complied? They would do with him as they pleased, regardless. Heavy boots land inches behind him and the soldier’s hot breath swirls against the nape of his neck.

 

 _“Im’ya,”_ he grinds out between clenched teeth.

 

“Chotyrnadtsyat ”. The number of medals he has won in competitive swimming. He pretends not to notice the scientist quirking his eyebrow and shooting a look back at the guard that is snarling behind his shoulder.

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He says, fourteen,” the guard answers in the man’s strange language.

 

Soon, he can feel the hair at the back of his head being gathered into a tight fist and pulled backward, setting his scalp ablaze. The man walks and acts with the authority of an alpha, but his mild scent suggests his beta status.

 

“Sto p'yatdesyat p'yat,” he tries again. His IQ.

 

“’One hundred fifty five’!”

 

“You think this is a game, then?” The man’s cool eyes are inspecting him, his gaze falling to his naked form and causing his stomach to do backflips. Self-consciously, he bends a knee to partially hide himself and the man chuckles. A smooth thumb strokes its way down the side of his face and causes him to shudder. “This is no game, beautiful. I can assure you.” The thumb creeps over to his bottom lip, pressing in and he wrenches his head away despite the searing pain it causes to his scalp. He is released with a shove and the back of the man’s hand flies across his face, connecting with a loud “CRACK” and jolting him backwards into the vest-clad guard. He is shoved back into his place in line, the prisoners he is attached to all shuddering and wavering where they stand, making it very clear that any wrong movement he makes directly affects them all.

 

The man in the lab coat produces two blue silicone gloves from his pocket and snaps them on. “Take this one.” He motions to the shackles at his feet and another guard joins the one behind him, unlocking the bindings and sliding the chains out from around them. “I have no use for a disobedient omegas. My client is being very clear as to what kind they are looking for.”

 

“What do we do with this one, then?”  His hands still bound by rope, the guard at his back clasps a heavy hand around them and drags him backward. His feet go out from beneath his body as he struggles to free himself from the pull.

 

The man in the lab coat shoots him an incredulous look. “What do you do with defective merchandise? Shoot him in the head. Make it clean; we can harvest the organs back at the lab.”

 

The click of a hammer sliding into place makes his eyes fly open wide. “Pochekayte!” He thrashes as the steel barrel is pressed to the back of his head, squirming as his heart threatens to explode inside his chest.

 

The scientist cocks his head. “What did he say?”

 

“To wait,” the guard holding the gun to his head mutters. He doesn’t make a motion to remove it, but he ceases squeezing the trigger.

 

The man steps forward. “I won’t ask again.”

 

“Sasha!” He blurts out, his face flushing as his resolve dissolves into pieces at his feet. “Sasha Dragnov!”

 

“That sounded like a name,” he says approvingly, and the guard nods in affirmation.

 

A smile slithers across the taxedermied man’s face and he motions to the guard to lower his weapon. Sasha blows out a shuddering breath and collapses back against him.

 

“It makes me very glad that you have chosen to comply.” The thumb is back again, swirling around his cheekbone in a sickeningly familiar touch, but Sasha fights the urge to back away, grateful to still be drawing breath. For the moment. “Destroying a specimen like you for mere performance issues would just be a waste. Would you like to try again? Hmm? Show me you have learned to obey?”

 

“Znovu(again),” the guard demands.

 

He ignores the tendril of dread and disgust unfurling inside of him and nods. After taking a moment to work up enough saliva in his parched throat, he mumurs, “Sasha.”

 

“Sasha.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Sasha.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sasha?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“C’mon Sosh.”

 

He jolts up in bed, his lungs scraping for air, pushing away the heavy hand that presses down on his shoulder. His glass blue eyes, wide and quivering, meet Rollins’, and he pulls the covers up protectively around his bulging stomach.

 

“Whoa! Hey.” Rollins’ wide hand smooths back the sweat from his forehead. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s just me.”

 

Sasha frantically scours the room, his shoulders only slightly relaxing as he drifts back into reality. He clamps a hand on his forehead, sweeping away the tendrils of black hair that cling to his face. “S-sorry…”

 

“Daddy?” A sleepy little black-haired girl yawns beside him, balling her fists up and reaching her arms out in a drowsy stretch.

 

“I’m here, Maddie.” He strokes back her soft locks and tucks the rumpled covers beneath her chin as his heartrate slows to normal. “Go back to bed, _kvitka._ Daddy just had a bad dream.”

 

“Guess so,” Rollins murmurs. He is sitting on the very edge of their king-size bed, most of which has been taken up by little sleeping lumps underneath numerous fuzzy blankets. “You alright?”

 

Sasha forces a smile. “Yes, I am fine.”

 

Rollins’ duffel is laying half-strewn on the bedroom floor and his uniform shirt hangs from his shoulders, unbuttoned. He smiles down at the sleepy black-haired baby in the crook of Sasha’s arm and kicks off his boots. They land with a dull ‘thud’ to the carpeted floor. “Lemme feel,” he murmurs, pressing a hand to his swollen belly. His fingers flow over Sasha’s silky skin to the movement of the squirming pups inside.

 

He buries his nose in Sasha’s hair and frowns when he smells the faint signature of a rival alpha. He lifts his head to gaze quizzically into Sasha’s eyes. “Rumlow here?”

 

Sasha shakes his head softly. “No.”

 

Rollins’ eyes darken as the realization hits him and he jerks up to a sitting position. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

               

Sasha’s hand stills on his bicep, squeezing down firmly. “No, please. Let it be. You just got home and the pups are sleeping.”

               

Rollin’s shoulders fall, his every alpha instinct grating against his senses as he slides back down with a growl. He presses his ear to Sasha’s belly, listening intently to four little heartbeats. Sasha’s fingers play absentmindedly with the short spikes at the top of his head, lulling him into a subdued calm. “I’m gonna miss this,” he murmurs softly against his navel and seals it with a tender kiss.

 

Sasha’s blue eyes flutter open to glance down at him. “What do you mean?”

 

Rollins lets out a haggard sigh. “Well, I kind of…got you something.”

 

Sasha lets out a wary hum as a pamphlet drifts across his chest. The top of it reads, in light blue lettering, “ _Your vasectomy and you_.” He snaps his attention down at Rollins, who stares distantly into the dimly lit room. His eyebrows knit together. “What…what is this?”

 

“Well, the way I figure, if you can go through all the pain of carrying and delivering our pups for me, then I can sit my balls on some ice for a few days for you.” His touch skitters up to Sasha’s hand, interlacing their fingers together and squeezing down gently. “You’re tired, baby. You’ve had enough. After this batch…that’s it. It’s just us from here on out.”

 

Sasha stammers, his heart racing as he flips the pamphlet open, gazing down at the medical pictures before letting it slide off his belly and onto the blankets below. “I…I don’t understand. Did I do something wr—?”

 

“No. God, no, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just think…well…I’ve been really selfish. And I’ve hurt you. And I think it’s time for me to make up for some of that damage.”

 

Sasha is frozen instantly with fear. Had he said something? Did he do something wrong? Is Rollins tired of him? “Jack…please…”

 

“I don’t get it, Sosh. I thought you’d be surprised, hell maybe even happy.”

 

“You don’t understand.” Sasha looks down into the sleeping face of one of their children, shakily kissing his forehead. The child murmurs something unintelligible and curls further into his side. “This…these pups. Our pups. They are my life. You take them away…” tears form at the rims of his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks. “You take them away I will have nothing.”

 

“We have twenty-two. Soon to be twenty-six.” Rollins lets out a soft laugh, shaking Sasha’s hands in his as if to drive home his point. “They will always be yours, baby. Nothing can take them away from you. And someday, probably sooner than you think, our oldest are gonna turn around and start making us grandpas.”

 

Sasha’s face lifts at the thought, a glint of light returning to his eyes. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You think so?”

 

“Baby, I _know_ so. Ferren, Tasha, and Jackie are all nearly seventeen. Tasha started her heats last year. And Ferren’s already dating a cute omega from school.” He presses their foreheads together, drawing Sasha in close to rub nose-on-nose. “You’re going to be the hottest-lookin’ grandpa in New York.”

 

“And…and this procedure?”

 

Rollins shrugs. “Totally safe. They do it all the time. A little snip, a few days icing my balls, and I’ll be good as new.”

 

“You’d do this...for me?”

 

“For _us.”_

Sasha’s smile widens as a happy tear escapes down his cheek. He throws his arms around Rollins’ neck, squeezing tight. “Thank you.”

 

Rollins is smiling, too, burying his face in the mass of black hair. “Anything for you, baby. Anything for you.”

* * * * *

 

Rumlow is furious. He knows that Captain Golden Labradoodle has always been a few shirts shy of a full load, but this…this right here takes the cake.

 

Of course, Steve doesn’t have access to Boomer’s student files like Rumlow does. Or his locker. He doesn’t get to follow the kid around all day as he’s bumping shoulders with Leo- _fucking_ -Maroni and sneaking into the mess hall to make out and talk about their excitement over their first mission. Fucking Leo—that kid has boned so many omegas, he wouldn’t be surprised if the brainless jock of a playboy already had pups he didn’t know about. Boomer has no fucking clue that he’s just another notch in his belt.

 

Not today, motherfucker. Not if Rumlow has anything to say about it.

 

Of course, being nearly thirty years the kid’s senior, he knew that getting rid of him might be a bit of a challenge. The new cybernetic gauntlets courtesy of Pim labs did the trick, though, making up for any challenge Leo’s youth might have presented. Fury’s going to get an earful when this is all over—sending a kid that close to his heat into a mission to retrieve the Punisher? Really? Did Fury not _smell_ it on him? Couldn’t he sense that burning urge to bend him over the desk and just plow into the kid till he had to come up for air?

 

Of course, there is always the possibility that Rumlow was the first to sense it. Boomer’s scent had been following him all day, sending fireworks through him like nails down his back, settling into the pit of his stomach in a ball of black tar, burning and unquenchable. But that usually only happens to mated pairs. And Boomer is unmated. And Rumlow…Rumlow doesn’t know what he is. Just some secondary alpha to a common house-pet. Doesn’t stop Boomer from crossing Rumlow’s mind every second of the day. Doesn’t make the emptiness go away, the same absence that Rumlow has been suffering for over five long years now.

 

The kid can barely bring himself to look at him, even now in the throngs of his heat. He’s presenting and he doesn’t even know it, legs spread and ass raised off the bed, knees dug deep into the comforter as he wriggles and pants against the pillow beneath him. “Ngh…it hurts.”

 

Rumlow does his best to steady his shaking hand, smoothing his hair back against his sweat-soaked forehead. “Shh, I know, sweetheart. Take it easy, okay, puppy? I’m here.”

 

Boomer weakly swats at his hand, pulling himself into a ball and shifting away from the touch. “Mmm…no….Leo.”

 

Rumlow has to swallow hard to push down the spike of rage that builds inside, forcing a smile instead and reveling in the fact that Leo won’t be a problem for quite a while, thanks to the gloves. “Sssh, Leo is fine.” The sirens stopped their wailing moments earlier. He’s probably packed up and on his way to Kitchen General. Five stories isn’t a lot—not for a fully-trained junior-agent who has fallen thousands of times before. Leo will keep his trap shut because with that amount of ballistic armor and jacketed steel, the less he says, the better off he’ll be. Anything he offers them will just seem like a shit-poor excuse, a white lie to get out of the deep pit of manure he’s found himself in.

 

“How come you hate me so much? Huh?” His hand returns, this time a little more forceful, tugging at the strands of fiery red hair. “What did I do? Did I love you too much?”

 

Boomer lets out a bitter, cold laugh, his eyes burning up at Rumlow’s. His pupils are blown wide, indicative of his heat, and his expression is warped in pain. “You really don’t know?”

 

Rumlow’s stomach does backflips as he goes back to that day 5 years earlier in his mind, a sick feeling overwhelming his senses as red rims his eyes.  “I couldn’t…Baby, I didn’t want to take advantage of…” Rumlow swallows hard and tries again, this time without excuses, without his piss-poor explanation, saying the only thing that is going to mean anything at this point. “I crushed you, didn’t I? I broke your heart.”

 

Boomer shudders as the tears flow, jamming his face into the pillow and balling the covers into fists on either side of him. “Just go.”

 

“You think I didn’t want you? Is that it?”

 

Boomer jerks up suddenly, the back side of his hand connecting with Rumlow’s cheek and tearing open a small gash over the bone. “GO! I don’t NEED you, you worthless pile of _shit!_ What the fuck is your PROBLEM?! You want me, or you don’t want me? You follow me around like I’m your fucking _property_ and the moment—THE SECOND—I have a shot with someone I like, I mean, I really, really _like—_ you have to ruin that, too? I mean, what is it, Brock? You don’t want _me_ , or you just don’t want me to be _happy_? _”_

Rumlow takes it. Takes all of it, all the feelings and the frustrations and everything he has wanted to say, has _needed_ to say for five years and rolls it all up into a single kiss, drawing his arms around the struggling redhead, his muscles taut and rigid and not giving in the slightest despite the kid tossing in his arms and tearing away at his flesh with those sharp nails of his. He slams his mouth over Boomer’s, takes advantage of the stifled gasp it produces and the way his mouth drops open to slip his wide tongue inside, lapping up the taste and the wetness and the warmth. Boomer melts into the touch, letting out a keening whimper under his masterful hands. “ _I love you,”_ Rumlow mumurs between them, worrying at Boomer’s pouty bottom lip, kissing those lips that he has dreamed about for the last five years, holding the tight little body wriggling against his that he has yearned for so badly. “It’s always been you, baby. Oh my sweet little puppy. It’s always been you.”

 

The only person in the entire world, the only one in Rumlow’s life that has ever once wanted him, that would follow him to the ends of the earth if only he asked.

 

He feels a sudden wetness against his cheeks, and chuckles a little when he realizes they are both crying, their tears mingling together between kisses and moans and sighs. Boomer notices, too, and laughs softly as he sweeps away a rogue stain with his thumb. Rumlow dips his head down to nuzzle Boomer’s neck, his breath pattering against the scent gland that springs to life like a flower under his touch. “God, yeah…” Boomer wiggles impossibly closer and suddenly Rumlow can’t breathe; Boomer’s scent surrounds him, claims him, and before Brock can set his teeth down on the pulsating spot, sharp teeth drag into the skin of his own neck and bite down, claiming his gland. Warm blood springs forward, trickling down into Boomer’s mouth and Rumlow bucks against his hips with a guttural grunt, backing him up against the headboard and the wall behind, locking him into place against his throbbing, trapped cock.

 

“Fuck…” Boomer lets out little pleading whimpers now, dragging his copper-scented tongue back into Rumlow’s mouth and Rumlow zealously chases the taste. They tear at each other’s clothes, buttons popping, seams shredding, a frantic tangle of limbs and they can’t shed the fabric fast enough. Rumlow’s tags jingle against his chest as they slide down into the plush coverings of the mattress, Rumlow dipping his head down and scraping his teeth against Boomer’s pin-hard nipple, sucking it into his mouth as he cups the flesh beneath, as if squeezing it hard enough would produce milk. Boomer’s mouth flies open, his head jerking up towards the ceiling, one hand dragging along the short black hair of Rumlow’s neck and gathering it into his fist.

 

“Jesus, baby…so beautiful…” Rumlow’s skillful hand captures Boomer’s leg, bringing it up to rest on his hip and wiggling his wide, calloused fingers into the hot crevasse between Boomer’s taut, silky-soft ass. He is greeted with slick that gushes forward like an open wound, and the scent alone is enough to make him pop a knot. “Hold up, hold up.” He backs off, the throbbing sensation at the base of his cock giving him warning enough to slow the progression, but eager hands find his erection and he chokes down a sob. “Fuck—Boomer!” He surges forward with an authoritative growl, capturing the wandering hands together at the wrists in one fist.

 

Boomer lets out an impish giggle, shaking his head softly. “I don’t care how you give it to me, I just…I need…” As if to drive home the point, he wiggles down further, spreading his knees and presenting again, and Rumlow has to swallow hard and glance away to keep from losing it right then and there. The tight, wet hole is touching the tip of his cock, warm slick coating his frenulum and trailing up to the slit.

 

Rumlow releases Boomer’s hands to cup his face, kissing him tenderly, biting down on the plump flesh of his bottom lip and savoring the moan it produces. “You’re sure..?”

 

Boomer’s eyes flicker open to stare into Rumlow’s, an endless stormy sea surrounded by wide, black pupils. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” The bashful fifteen year old returns for just a moment, his gaze flickering away as a pink blush sets high on his cheeks.

 

Rumlow goes to push forward, but strong legs wrap around his waist, and a hand clamps down on his neck, spinning him suddenly, his shoulders scraping the headboard and his ass planted firmly on the bed. “The hell—?” Boomer crawls on top, eyes locked onto his, wide and devilish. He brings their chests together, drawing his firm body up against Rumlow’s dog tags, then back down again, his hole swallowing the head of Rumlow’s cock by the sheer force of his weight. “FUCK—!” Rumlow’s head rolls back at the sensation. The kid’s hole is so tight it draws him out. He is going in unprepared and raw, and it has to be the single most amazing sensation he has ever experienced. Before he can ask Boomer if it’s too much to take, Boomer is drawing his knees up under Rumlow’s biceps and stretching the tight ring of muscle over his throbbing cock.

 

“Aah…” Boomer is panting, his belly ebbing and stomach muscles clenching as he lets his weight draw Rumlow further in.

 

Rumlow thrusts upward with a growl, his knot rubbing hard against the base of his cock and threatening to expand. “Gonna fill you up,” he groans. It’s more a warning than dirty-talk. There is little chance of his first mating after two years with no heat cycle, but it’s a possibility nonetheless. If the kid cares, he is either not listening or unable to as he seats himself fully over Rumlow’s cock, the bulbous head jutting against the walls of his prostate.

 

Rumlow’s cock sputters inside, coating his impossibly tight hole with milky-white precome and arching upward into the walls of warm muscle. Boomer lifts his hips slightly and sets them back down with a moan and the friction sends shockwaves through Rumlow’s spine.

 

Rumlow gathers a nipple into his mouth, pinching the other one, yearning so badly for the sensation of warm liquid to flow from them. Boomer’s babies would be fat and healthy, his belly round and full and squirming with pups and Rumlow’s knot expands against the tight little hole just thinking about it. “You want pups?,” Rumlow grinds out, his teeth locked onto the hardened pink bud.

 

“God…no…” Boomer chuckles a little even as he picks up the pace, pushing upward on his knees and setting himself down on the shaft that threatens to split him in two.

 

Rumlow lets out a soft laugh, arching his back and matching the rhythm. He used to tease Bucky during sex, threatening to impregnate him and usually earning himself a vibranium fist in his teeth. “You don’t want to be fat with my babies?” Boomer growls half-heartedly, too far gone in his heat to make out much of what Rumlow is saying.

 

Rumlow grabs his knees, twisting them around in one fluid motion, rolling on top of Boomer as he drives into him. Boomer bites off a keening wail, climbing Rumlow’s waist as he plows inside.

 

“Jesus-god, Baby, you’re so beautiful.” Rumlow’s balls draw up tight as he flattens him to the bed, rubbing his cock raw against the tight little entrance. He dips his hand between Boomer’s legs, gripping the bouncing little cock that’s slick with precome and rosy-red at the tip. “You’re gonna come for me, okay sweetheart?”

 

Boomer nods, his face contorted in pain and pleasure as he pants beneath him.

 

“Come on,” Rumlow grinds out, latching on furiously and delivering blow after blow to the stiff cock inside his calloused fingers. “Come on, puppy. Come for me. Come for your alpha.” That word must do the trick, because seconds later Boomer is sobbing beneath him, convulsing as his dick sputters out thick ribbons of come over his belly and Rumlow’s closed fist. “Such a good boy, ohhhh yeah. Such a good puppy.” The walls of his hole clench down tight and Rumlow follows soon after, his balls rubbing against the ring of muscle and his cock exploding inside, filling him with seed and the bulbous knot locking into place. Rumlow rides his climax, involuntary jerks rippling through him and his hips bucking up against the spent little hole that clenches tight, mechanically milking every drop till he is dry. “Wow…” He draws out a shaky breath, his fingers tracing the small bulge his come has created in Boomer’s otherwise flat stomach.

 

Rumlow catches himself on the headboard, clamping a shaky hand on the top rung just before collapsing. He glances down at the sated redhead who moans contentedly beneath him, absentmindedly skimming his slender fingers up Rumlow’s chest “You okay? “

 

Boomer licks his lips, wincing only slightly as he adjusts his hips under Rumlow’s. “Yeah. You? “

 

Rumlow huffs out a soft laugh. “You kiddin’? I feel amazing.” He slides down, shifting so that half his weight lands on the bed beside Boomer, moving slowly, mindful of his knot that’s still locked inside. “You are amazing.” He pressed his full lips to Boomer’s damp and shimmering temple, trailing the kiss down his cheek, his jaw, his neck, biting playfully at the gland that pulsates against shuddering skin.

 

“Do it,“ Boomer murmurs,  squeezing Rumlow’ bicep for affect. “The mission is fucked, either way. Castle isn’t going to be persuaded by a claimed omega. Sides, all our sites are coming up empty.”

 

“I might be able to help you with that, “Rumlow offers. He hooks his fatigues with his toe, launching the rumpled pants up to his head and digging around in the pockets. He produces a pamphlet and plants it on Boomer’s chest with a grin.

 

“Sadie’s Bar and Grill”? This isn’t on the list.” He turns the card in his hand quizzically. “Seems like a lot nicer place than he frequents.”

 

“That’s because he takes his boyfriend there.”

 

Boomer’s eyebrows raise. “Boyfriend?  You mean, he already has a…? “

 

Rumlow nods. “Yup. So, I don’t know what Fury was planning or why he needs Castle so badly, but you might try pleasing your case with those big, green puppy-dog eyes of yours instead of your tight little ass.” He taps Boomer’s butt cheek. “’Sides, it wasn’t like I was going to let him do anything to you.”

 

“How did you know..? “

 

“Shhhh.” Rumlow presses a finger to his lips, sinking his teeth into the spot and revealing in the gasp it produces. The scent flows freely from Boomer’s gland, and Rumlow sucks it in,  intermingling it with his own, the smell of their bond thickening the air,  all Motor oil/Hyacinthe/orange/burning embers. He groans as his dick Springs to life again inside of his warmth, holding him there in the circle of his arms.

 

Boomer jumps at the sensation, his eyes flashing questioningly up at him.

 

“Shhhhh it’s okay,  sugar. It’s what’s supposed to happen.”

 

The redhead lets out a little gasp as his body responds, his entrance fluttering to life around the stiffening rod and wriggling uncomfortably. “B..but we just..? “

 

Rumlow smooths his hair back, nibbling at the newly marked skin of his throat and letting out a soft chuckle. “Baby, we’re not done. Not by a long shot.”

 

“R-Really?”

 

He pressed a soothing kiss to his lips, letting his alpha pheremones go to work calming the nerves of his newly deflowered omega. “Really really.”

 

Rumlow has found his new favorite song—the sound of Boomer’s helpless, pathetic cries and the soft slap of skin-on-skin as he jack-hammers into him, the slender legs wrapped around his thick waist tightening at every thrust.

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/BoomRum_zpsevqoxd7e.jpg.html) [](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/Sasha_zpsfwj6atqc.jpg.html)


	5. Certifiable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a coward.” Boomer checks his brain at the door and launches himself at the man with a roar, letting his fist fly into the Punisher’s face with a resounding “CRACK”. The majority of the sound, he realizes only after coming down, are from his fingers. He holds his throbbing hand and braces for impact, wincing.

Boomer does his best to look disinterested and slightly inconvenienced when the door man asks for his ID. He holds it up between two fingers, being sure to flash the guy a quick eye-roll. The man might even have a head on his Dad—his tailored black suit drapes over his broad shoulders as he blocks the entrance to the bar and Boomer wonders if he has to duck when he uses it. The guy plucks the card out with his big, meaty hands and holds it up to the street light. “You got business?”

 

Boomer cocks his hip, being sure to show off the curve of his spine in the tight gray pullover and dark colored jeans. “Nah, just pleasure tonight.” He tries a quick smile to pull off a sincere tone. He is still a bit sore from all the lovemaking, but grateful for the reprieve from his heat so he can focus on doing his job, even if Mr. Too-Fucking-Tall can scent it on him, his dark nostrils flaring and a grin creeping across his mouth. Boomer holds back the shudder he feels building through him as their eyes meet.

 

Too-tall slips the card into Boomer’s jean pocket and it’s all Boomer can do to keep from jumping back on instinct. The guy’s hand lingers familiarly against his hip-bone, his thumb flicking out to graze the skin beneath his pull-over as he drags his tongue against his bottom lip. “You know, if you, ah…don’t find what you’re looking for in there, I get off in a half-hour.”

 

Before he can stop it, a vision of him trying to breathe underneath the crushing weight of the gargantuan guard as he is mercilessly pounded into plays in his mind and he pulls away. The thought would be repulsive under any other circumstance, but his body has ideas of its own lately and excitedly jumps at the opportunity to be mindlessly fucked. The guard’s hand clamps around the handle of the door and Boomer’s heart seizes before realizing that he is actually pulling it open for him, not trying to keep him back. “Uhm…thanks.” He snaps a tight smile at him before slipping quietly through, the ghost-feeling of the guy’s fingers still playing out on his skin, producing an excited quiver. He’ll have to keep in mind to stay away from anyone else’s touches.

 

Sadie’s is even nicer looking in person than on the flier; the vaulted ceiling is covered in ornate brass tiles that open up every few feet into skylights. The bar spans the length of the main floor and shines so brightly Boomer can see his reflection in it as he walks past. There is an ancient oval mirror behind it, aged with mercurial haze and framed with a network of shelves that hold equally old whiskey bottles. It’s nearing 2am and the tables are mostly cleared except for the occasional patron, most of whom have either fell asleep in their glasses or weren’t really drinking in the first place, typing on their laptops or quietly conversing over plates smattered with remnants of spaghetti-sauce.

 

He wouldn’t be able to pinpoint Frank Castle from across the room, but his lawyer boyfriend stands out easily; he is the red-headed guy leaning against the pool table, his hand feeling along the surface to locate the balls and line up the shot. “That’s the cue,” a dark-haired guy in a faded black jacket tells him as his hand falls on the white ball.

 

“I know that,” the lawyer offers with a slight laugh to his voice.

 

“Kinda’ figured.”

 

This would have seemed like a setup had Boomer not checked every other locale on the list. But Uncle Rumlow knows his stuff, and whoever his contacts are, however he gets his intel, it’s pretty clear from the dark glare he gets as he approaches the billiard room that he’s not supposed to _know_ Frank’s here. The blind man turns his head slightly to the sound of his approach, and he smiles politely before continuing to line up his shot. “Seems you have company.” He sinks the red striped ball into the left corner pocket without disturbing the bumpers.

 

“Mr…Mr. Castle?” Boomer is suddenly completely lost as to how to continue, all the interrogation training he’s received at Shield sliding out of his brain and landing into a puddle on the floor. This is _The Punisher_ , the man nightmares are made of, the killer of killers, the Reaper himself.

 

Frank tilts his head upwards, jutting his jaw forward, his teeth clacking together once as light pours into his dark brown eyes like igniting embers. Among the various bruises and cuts on his face (all in varying stages of healing) a crescent-shaped scar grazes the skin above his left eye and trails into his pepper-gray hairline. The ridge of his nose is warped, the skin scarred and uneven, the evidence of being broken too many times to count. There is nothing about this man that is not hard, and the swell of spicy aroma surrounding him causes a shudder to fly down Boomer’s spine. This man is an uber-alpha. He instinctively takes a step back and has to work his hands into fists to steel himself.

 

“Go away,” the uber-alpha says, and it takes every ounce of inner strength to disobey. Frank turns his wide back to the whelp, taking up his pool-stick in hand and stalking around to the far side, inspecting his options.

 

Boomer betrays his wavering feet and takes two steps forward. “Mr. Castle, my name is Bailey Barnes of Shield. I’ve been sent here to—“

 

Frank’s head snaps up and he ignores the lawyer’s gentle hand falling on his shoulder, barking, “Are you deaf, kid? Or just that _stupid_?” A champagne glass shatters to the floor in the distance and the murmuring breaks into complete silence.  

 

“Frank,” his boyfriend murmurs.

 

Boomer sets his jaw and marches forward still, rounding the table and jerking the pool-stick out of the man’s knotted hands. “Look, I know you’re a tough guy, alright? I’m sure you’re probably not used to people who’ll look twice at you let alone address you, but I’ve come a long way ( _not that long, really)_ and l’ve looked up and down this city for two seconds of your time. And since I’m still breathing, I’m going to guess that you’re too much of a pussy to do anything about it so I’m just going to fucking say it.”

 

The laywer’s mouth drops open slightly before curving up into a smile and turning to his scowling alpha. “Well…he did come to see _you,_ Frank.”

 

The killer’s brown eyes level at Boomer and he draws out a shaky breath. “Shield needs your…expertise.”

 

Frank huffs out a dark chuckle before turning behind him and selecting another stick from the wall. “And I’m just supposed to drop everything I’m doing and come with you, that it?”

 

“Well…” Boomer stammers, searching the lawyer’s kind eyes for help before reminding himself that the man can’t see his pleading glance. “Uhm. Kind of, yeah.”

 

“They didn’t tell you what they needed me for, did they?”

 

Boomer shakes his head slowly. “Doesn’t matter. I have my orders. And those orders were to bring you in.” He clamps a hand down on the stick as Frank levels it to the table, feeling his mouth go dry at the deep growl emanating from the man’s throat.

 

“Jesus, kid, you stink to high heaven.” A flick of his shoulder sends Boomer staggering backwards into a barstool and he steadies himself against the high table beside it.

 

“My guess would be it’s something the Avengers won’t even touch,” his red-headed boyfriend muses with a shrug. “Could be fun.”

 

“Nice try,” Frank grumbles.

 

“You know, I thought you were supposed to help people!” Boomer launches himself away from the table as he brushes off the knees of his jeans. “Is that what you do? So, what, just because you might have to play by someone else’s rules for a while, you won’t help?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah.” Frank lines up his shot and taps a stripe ball into a solid, sending it mere centimeters from his target pocket. The boyfriend tisks playfully and shakes his head.

 

“You’re a coward.” Boomer checks his brain at the door and launches himself at the man with a roar, letting his fist fly into the Punisher’s face with a resounding “CRACK”. The majority of the sound, he realizes only after coming down, are from his fingers. He holds his broken hand and braces for impact, wincing.

 

Frank sets his jaw back into place and ignores the plea of mercy from his boyfriend, going for Boomer’s throat.

 

Boomer scrapes for what little air he can squeak into his lungs, his shoulder-blades scraping against the wall and his long legs kicking out at nothing as he is hoisted up above Frank’s head. “You’re dumber than I thought,” he growls.

 

“Frank, stop!” The lawyer tugs on the sleeve of Frank’s jacket before being brushed off with a grunt. “FRANK!”

 

With an amount of strength that Boomer is surprised comes from the smaller man, he is being torn away, and is catapulting towards the floor, catching himself with his palms to the hardwood just before he lands.

 

“That one was a freebie, kid.” Frank spits watery blood from the side of his mouth before tossing the pool sticks back. They land together in a bunch into the corner wall and he tosses a fifty on the table. “You try something like that again, I start breaking something.” He pinches his boyfriend’s shirt at the elbow and tugs him in the direction of the door. “Come on, Red.”

 

“Frank…” The smaller man pulls away, glancing back at Boomer as he staggers to his feet and gasps for air. “They could have sent the Strike Team, or the Aveng—“

 

“They _should_ have sent the Strike Team,” he grinds out.  

 

“My point is, what would it hurt to at least hear Fury out?”

 

“Oh, no no no, Red. I know what this is all about. You want in on this.”

 

The lawyer nods. “Yes. Of course I do, if it could help. What I’m saying is, how can we call ourselves heroes if we just limit ourselves to Hell’s Kitchen? If Shield needs us, then…” He licks his lips. “Then I say it’s worth at least looking into.”

 

“Trust me, Red, whatever Fury has going on, we don’t want any part of it.”

 

Boomer wipes a streak of drool from his mouth and bolts after the pair, rounding Frank and slamming a hand against his chest.

 

Frank’s hands fly up and he lets out an exasperated growl. “Persistent little shit, aren’t you?”

 

“Look, the way I see it, you can bust heads here like banging your head against a brick wall, waiting for the bad guys to come back around while you scrape and scrounge for your next AK-47, or you can do it with the proper intel and a shitload of weapons with us. ”

 

Frank quirks an eyebrow and the man named Matt stifles a snicker. Frank shifts his weight and plants a firm hand on his hip, glancing at his boyfriend with an unenthused glare. “If I go see what the hell it is Fury wants…on my _own time…_ will you promise to leave us the fuck alone?”

 

Boomer tries to swallow down the excitement bursting inside but a wide grin escapes, his entire face lighting up triumphantly despite the epic eye-roll the ruthless killer is giving him. “Really? You’ll do it?”

 

“Will you go the fuck _home_?”

 

“I—yes!” Visions flash by in his head of a congratulatory Fury and his Dads giving him proud looks at his Academy Graduation speech and Leo being super jealous that he…

 

The thought of Leo injured and alone snuffs out his joy quickly and his smile fades. He spots a folded knife resting just below the Punisher’s hip and reaches for it with lightning-fast reflexes, plucking it out of his pocket and flashing it in front of his face before jolting out of his reach.

 

Frank cocks his head to the side, his eyes flashing as the very last thread of his nerves begins to visibly unravel. “ _Really_ , kid?”

 

“Insurance,” He offers, stuffing the folding knife into the front of his pants (it unexpectedly goes down his underwear, too, but no matter-it’s not a place the Punisher’s going to be reaching any time soon, especially with his boyfriend standing right there. “Look me up when you get to Shield Central. I’ll be in the Academy building, just a few blocks down.”

 

“My favorite knife,” he murmurs to Matt, who just shrugs as it seems he can’t wipe the smile off his face. It is clear his boyfriend is being entertained, and that more than anything else is probably why Boomer is still alive.

 

“Mission complete,” Boomer says, pushing the button behind his ear.

 

>Good. Now get your ass out of there, kid. Go out the side door, if you can help it. Mr. Tall Dark and Creepy keeps glancing through the front door here and lookin’ for ya.<

 

* * * * *

 

Back in the hotel room and away from prying eyes, Boomer launches himself into Rumlow’s arms. He still fits the same in them as he did when he was fifteen, his growth having probably been stunted by the onslaught of omega hormones that took over his body. He flattens his chest to Rumlow’s, letting out a desperate little moan and biting the flesh below Rumlow’s jawline. The scent wafts up into his nostrils and he locks onto it; breathing in the heady musk of _his_ _alpha._

 

“Your hand, baby…” Rumlow tenderly turns Boomer’s hand over, inspecting the bruised knuckles that are quickly turning from red to purple. “Did he do this? I’ll fucking kill him.”

 

 

“It’s fine,” the omega murmurs impatiently, licking a stripe of saliva across Brock’s freshly torn skin.

 

“Easy, Boom. Easy.” Rumlow strokes his back in soothing circles, chuckling as Boomer’s mouth opens ove his, that pink tongue lapping inside and the pheromones of his heat setting Rumlow’s cock in fire. He falters back against the bed just as the door slides closed and Boomer climbs on top of him, pinning the larger man to the bed with an iron grip and snaking his hand down the fly of his jeans. Rumlow lets out a hiss as the lithe fingers flutter down his trapped bulge, bucking against the touch and setting Boomer’s ass down on it with a hand to either side of his hips. “Ffffuck…” He rolls his head back as sharp teeth find their mark and bite down on the already bruised gland.

 

Boomer yanks impatiently at his fly, letting out a sharp whimper and digging his nails into the tight wad of flesh shallowly buried beneath.

 

“This what you want, baby?” Rumlow reaches up, sucking that pouty bottom lip in with his teeth and releasing it with a “pop”. He digs himself out of his pants, the fabric haphazardly flying apart, the button popping, zipper scraping his frenulum on the way down but it all feels so good it doesn’t even matter. “You want my cock in you?”

 

“Yeah,” Boomer pleads, his voice high and breathy. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his own jeans and yanks downward, swinging his leg over to dismount Rumlow long enough to slide the pants off.

 

Rumlow stops him. “No, baby.”

 

“No?” Boomer sounds crushed, but he waits on top of Rumlow, tongue flicking out over his reddened, puffy lips and waiting for further instruction.

 

“I’m gonna give it to _you_ , okay?”

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter, not comprehending as Rumlow slides out from underneath him to stand at the edge of the bed. “C’mere,” he commands gently, patting the edge of the bed in front of him. The tip of his dick is already drooling precome and Boomer scampers as if it’s a matter of life or death that he get that cock in him _now._ Rumlow doesn’t seem so rushed, though, sweeping his wide palm over Boomer’s ebbing belly as he plants his ass down in front of him and spreads his legs. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes glossing over as he explores the small, slender body beneath him.

 

“Rum…ngh…please…” A glistening tear slips down Boomer’s flushed cheek and he strains upward, arching his back into the touch and presenting with his hips, his legs spreading to fully reveal the clenching ring of muscle beneath.

 

“Nope, not yet. That’s the heat talkin’, babe.”

 

Calloused fingers brush along the silky skin of his thigh, working a shiver through him as he chokes down a desperate cry.

 

Rumlow watches Boomer’s face with a calculating stare, dipping a hand between his ass cheeks and sinking his fingers into the warm wetness there. Boomer’s eyes fly open, his head sailing off the bed as he wriggles closer to the touch, begging for something— _anything—_ to press into his aching hole. “Ya see, what you want right now is an alpha’s knot to fill you up.” Rumlow’s finger skirts past the opening and down, circling the tender opening and pressing into the skin around it, grinning at the keening wails each touch produces. “You want a cock to come and shove into that little round hole of yours and rub you raw.”

 

Boomer’s pupils are blown wide as he stifles a gasp, parting his knees as far as he can get them and reaching a hand down for Rumlow’s seeping shaft when he doesn’t respond. Suddenly, his wrists are wrenched up behind his head together in one fluid motion, and Rumlow leans down onto him, his breath hot against his ear.

 

“No, no. That’s a bad little puppy. You _wait,_ understood?”

 

Helpless to do anything else, Boomer nods pathetically. “Hmm-hm.”

 

“Good boy.” The fingers return, this time pressing inward ever so slightly. Boomer’s mouth drops open and he lets out a low, animalistic moan, jamming his hips down over them and wiggling to get them inside. “NO,” Rumlow snaps again, and the fingers drift away.

 

“No, no, no please. I’ll…Please…Rumlow…”

 

“What’s that, baby?” Rumlow runs the stubble of his chin across the kid’s freckled chest, setting his teeth down on a glass-stiff nipple, his tongue jutting out to chase the taste of his omega’s heat-run aura.

 

“Please…I need… ngh…” Boomer is panting, now, his belly rising and falling sharply, timed to the beating of his heart.

 

“You want me inside of you?”

 

“YES! God, please, yes…ah!...”

 

Rumlow quirks his head, his wickedly blank stare boring holes into Boomer’s eyes. “Why? You want a baby, that it?”

 

“Wha--? N-no…” Flustered, Boomer glances away, a slight blush settling on his cheeks.

 

“Well, you _must_ want pups. Right? That’s why you want it so badly. You want to be bred.”

 

“No. I…uh….”

 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Tell the truth. You remember that night you came to me, when you were fifteen? You were flushed and hot and ready for a meaty cock to be drilled into tiny little hole. You begged for me. _Begged for it to be me that entered you_. Remember that? You told me you would be so good for me. You said you’d always obey and always listen, as long as I made you fat with my pups.”

 

“I-I was in heat,” Boomer makes out between heavy breaths. His face is contorted with need, his eyes darting around the room as if there might be someone listening in on his confession.

 

Rumlow sends his hips into Boomer’s suddenly, dragging out a shocked cry from the omega. His cock lands heavily, between Boomer’s legs, rutting himself against Boomer’s thigh and bringing his weight down on top of him. “Did you want _me_?” Rumlow’s eyes burn into Boomer’s.

 

Boomer’s eyes soften, his shoulders slumping as all the fight drains out of him. “Always,” he murmurs, reaching his head up to press their foreheads together. “I…” He flicks his tongue across his lips nervously, his eyes glistening in the soft light of the room. “Uncle Rumlow…I think…I love you.”

 

Rumlow’s mouth descends firmly onto Boomer’s as he enters Boomer’s aching hole. It has tightened up completely in the time from their last mating, despite being sore and rubbed so perfectly raw. His hole curves to the memory of his alpha’s rigid cock, Boomer’s hips flying off the bed as he takes him in with a shuddering gasp. “Shhh, shhh, baby…it’s okay. It hurts. I know. I know.” Rumlow releases Boomer’s wrists and they slide over his neck, squeezing tightly as he thrusts into him. “Here I am, sweetheart. I’m never leaving you again. I promise. I promise.”

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer lets out a sated moan in the midst of the dim light of the room, his sweat-damp hair soft and fluttering against Rumlow’s shoulder as a draft of night air crawls across their skin.

 

“So, where do you kids go on dates these days?”

 

Boomer laughs softly, absentmindedly drawing little figure-8’s over the Shield tattoo on Rumlow’s bicep. “You wanna take me on a date?”

 

Rumlow snorts. “Well, yeah. Is that such a bad idea?”

 

Boomer shrugs, planting his head in the crook of Rumlow’s arm as he stares up at the blank ceiling. “No, it’s just…”

 

Rumlow plays with a tendril of blood-red hair and waits patiently for him to finish.

 

“…this is going to be weird, isn’t it? I mean, with the Academy. And with Leo…” Boomer draws out a long sigh as he adds, “…with my parents.”

 

“Hey.” Rumlow’s heart flutters at the mention of Steve and Bucky, a tendril of dread working its way through. He shoves it down, tugging on Boomer’s hair and planting a firm kiss on his scent gland. “Don’t worry about them. Shit’ll work itself out. And we’ll face the world head-on, okay? Together.”

 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he glances up at Rumlow with a nod. “Alright. Together.”

 

* * * * *

 

Rumlow’s phone lets out a high-pitched alert what seems like minutes after they had drifted asleep. Boomer groans, lifting his head just high enough to peer at the radio clock on the table across from him. It reads 5:42. The sunlight is just a yellow sliver peeking over the horizon. Rumlow flips the phone open with the hand that isn’t buried behind Boomer’s shoulders and cracks open one eye. “Ngh…yeah.”

 

Fury’s voice is clear and deep on the other end of the line. “What’s your status? Are you with Little Barnes?” (Boomer absolutely abhors the nickname, but given Fury’s fondness for last names and the fact that there were now _two_ Barnes’ in the field, it stuck. Boomer just prays it never comes back to any of his fellow students in the academy.

 

“Uhm…” Rumlow hunkers deeper into the plush comforter, drawing Boomer in closer and giving him a sleepy kiss on his collar-bone. “Yeah. Mission accomplished.” A proud grin crosses his lips and he gives Boomer a little squeeze around his middle. “The kid did good. We’re heading back now. You can expect a full mission report once he gets a chance to…you know…smooth things over at home.”

 

“How’s Leo?,” Boomer pipes up.

 

Brock’s eyes darken and he sets his jaw, repeating into the speaker, “He wants to know how Maroni is holding up.”

 

“He’s currently being detained at Mount Sinai West if you or Boomer want to visit. Thank God you found him when you did. I have to admit, I was a little hesitant at first when you suggested shadowing them, but it turned out to be a really good thing. That kid is a real asset to our team and it would have been a tragedy to lose him. Nice work, Commander.”

 

“You catch that?,” Rumlow asks, watching Boomer slide out of the warm bed and out of the circle of his arms. “No, no, not you, Sir. I was asking the kid.”

 

Boomer gives him a sharp nod before padding off to the bathroom, last night’s clothes balled up into a bundle under his arm. Brock swallows hard.

 

* * * * *

 

The sun spills out into the parking lot as they make their way to their prospective vehicles; Leo’s motorcycle keys and Frank Castle’s knife jingle together in Boomer’s pocket. He touches Leo’s helmet fondly, tenderly, pausing momentarily before sliding the one beside it on and fastening the strap under his chin.

 

“Call me when you get back, okay?” Rumlow holds the handle bars as Boomer swings his leg over the bike, leaning down into Boomer’s space and capturing the strap beneath his chin, wrenching his head up to meet his gaze. “You got that?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Boomer murmurs, jamming the key in. The engine blasts and the bike surges forward a little before Rumlow stops it with his powerful hands, leaning down for one last desperate kiss.

 

“Wherever you go,” he grinds out between their mouths, worrying at his bottom lip, “I go with you.” He brushes his thumb across the beauty mark that rests to the left of Boomer’s nose, squeezing his chin once for effect before stepping away.

 

Boomer flashes him a coy smile, his glass-blue eyes flickering downward like some blushing bride, before jamming down on the pedal and tearing off through the parking lot.

 

Rumlow watches as his heart disappears through the early morning haze.

 

* * * * *

The apartment is quiet. And though Boomer’s first instinct is to breathe a sigh of relief and attempt to skip off quietly to his bedroom, he knows better than that. He clutches his duffel close to his heart and sucks in his breath (as if the very air could alert his parents to his presence). He slips his boots off in the hallway and toes it through the kitchen, finally landing undiscovered on the other side. He glances down the hall to the closed door of his room and touches his feet to the carpet, cringing when he hears the clink of a glass hitting the coffee table in the living room. He dares to glance over and sees the back of Bucky’s head. His reflection in the black void of the television is aimed directly at his son, and his eyes bore holes into Boomers.

 

“Noa is visiting his Mother in Long Island, did you know that?” Bucky’s metal arm scrapes the glass like nails on a chalkboard as he grasps it again, bringing it to his lips and taking a long swig. “No. I don’t suppose you did.”


	6. The Price of Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " Rumlow has done some pretty shitty things. He’s…I mean, you’ve never seen it but he’s genuinely, by nature, a pretty shitty human being, and I’m trying to keep you from having to find that out on your own. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of very not-nice things that happen in this chapter, though none of it too hard to stomach, I don't think. Please tread carefully and leave a note in the comments section if I need to add any tags!

Boomer’s heart just about stops, his chest turning to ice. He opens his mouth to speak but finds his throat completely dry and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Dad…I can—“

 

Bucky’s eyes slide to his, dangerous and seething and daring—just daring—his dumbass son to make one. more. sound.

 

Boomer flattens himself to the wall as Bucky rises from his place on the couch and stalks towards him. He drops his mouth open waiting for the words to come, but vibranium fingers coil into his hair and ball it into a fist at the back of his head before he can do anything more than let out a bitten-off squeal. A rough jolt sends him reeling around the corner, his shoulder-blade grazing the drywall and causing him to stumble over his own feet.

 

“C’mon.”

 

“Dad!? What the _fuck?_ ”

 

Boomer collapses into a heap halfway down the hall, and Bucky stops himself just short of sending a booted foot up his ass. “UP,” his father commands with a dark growl.

 

“Daddy, I can explain,” Boomer holds his hands in front of himself defensively as he wills his shaking knees to support his weight. He rises slowly, greeting the burning hellfire of his Dad’s eyes before receiving a quick shove towards his bedroom. Boomer’s hands are shaking when he opens the door, half-expecting to see Steve on the other side. He is only slightly relieved when it reveals his room, seemingly untouched, textbooks piled on the bed just where he left them, an unfinished red bull on the floor beside. “It was a _mission_ , okay? I-I would have told you guys ( _no he wouldn’t have)_ b-but Fury said—“

 

“Fury?” Bucky’s head snaps up as he grabs his son’s chin, turning his head this way and that, methodically scanning him with the accuracy of a machine. His eyes fall to Boomer’s wrist, and he holds it up. “Who did this?”

 

Boomer is unable to hide a sharp wince. “I did,” he mutters.

 

Bucky tosses his head back to the ceiling as if he is sending up a prayer for the strength to hold back the torrential rage that’s building inside of him. “Fuck, Boomer! Another fight?!”

 

“Not a fight, Daddy a _mission_ , I’m _telling_ you! If you’d just listen—“

 

“Oh I’m listening, alright. And frankly, Bailey, I’m not sure if I can believe half of what comes out of your mouth these days.”

 

“I’m twenty, Dad! I technically don’t _have_ to tell you anything. And this was official business!”

 

Bucky’s eyebrow quirk, his expression incredulous as he clenches his son’s jaw tight in his flesh hand. “Tell that to your Father, who is scouring the city looking for you right now. You ungrateful, ignorant, little _puke_.”

 

Boomer sets his jaw firmly, his icy eyes staring into Bucky’s for what seems like an eternity.

 

Bucky shifts suddenly, the fire going out in his glance as he sniffs the air around him and tilts his head.

 

“Dad?” Boomer’s voice is barely above a whisper as the realization hits and an ice-cold shock runs through him.

 

They have had their fights before; arguments over clothing choices and career aspirations, what time to be home by and when to go to bed. He has never before seen the devastated expression now ghosting across his Daddy’s face, his eyes brimming with tears and a sharp breath being shuddered out between parted lips. “Oh, no.” Bucky’s grip weakens until his hand slides down Boomer’s face, his thumb sweeping across the mole to the left of his nose, just as Rumlow had done not an hour before _._

 

Boomer’s legs turn to jelly and he grips onto his Dad to keep himself upright. “Wh…what? Daddy? What is it?”

 

Bucky flattens a hand to his face, swiping away exhausted, numb tears and drifting away to sit on the edge of the bed. “No…not…” He is now lost in his own thoughts, his gaze drifting out into the distance, frozen in time. “Boomer, did you fuck Rumlow?”

 

A rush of fire hits Boomer head-on, his face lighting up red as he falters against the wall behind him. “Wh….Dad…”

 

Bucky lets in a slow, deep breath through his nostrils, his eyes slamming up into Boomer’s. “Did. you. fuck. him.”

 

There is a part of him that still hates Rumlow for what he did, regardless of his intentions. And maybe Boomer isn’t emotionally ready for a physical relationship, but there’s no denying that his body certainly _is_. Still, the shame and guilt surrounding the fact that his Daddy and Rumlow had themselves once been a pair, and that Rumlow is (kind of?) his god-parent, and that Boomer has sworn off having a mate for so long, now… He swallows hard, jamming down his conscious instinct to run away, and mumurs, “Yeah.”

 

Bucky huffs out a soft, sad laugh. The evidence swirls around him, assaulting Bucky’s nose and there is no sense of denying it, but it still shocks him to hear his son…his _baby boy_ …admitting it. “You smell like him. You smell like a bred omega.”

 

The comment burns in Boomer’s chest but he does his best to not let it show. He isn’t supposed to be like this—he’s _supposed_ to be like Captain America—a strong, leader-type alpha who is respected and revered by his peers, whom nobody questions or messes with because his very DNA _resonates_ authority. It only occurs to him secondly, however, that his father is referring to the scent that follows him, the scent that clings to any mated alpha or omega, broadcasting to the world around them just exactly to whom they belong. There is little doubt that Steve will scent the rival alpha’s pungent smell all over his little baby boy, and that he will respond accordingly. A desperate helplessness seeps deep into his bones as his instincts to preserve and protect his mate take over and his eyes flash up to meet Bucky’s, pleading silently.

 

Bucky’s head tilts downward once. He snaps up off the bed, grabbing his son by the bicep and once again pulling him into the hallway.

 

“Daddy—?!” Boomer doesn’t fight this time, allowing himself to be led into the bathroom as Bucky starts the water and tears off Boomer’s shirt.

 

Bucky turns his face away as a wave of alpha assaults his nose, bringing his sleeve up into his face. “Good god…how many times did you guys do it?”

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter, the numbers rolling by in his head. He’s not quite sure what does and doesn’t count as a “time”—the times he came? The times Rumlow came? The times Rumlow knotted him? He tries to collect the memories like points on a scoreboard and finally falls on a number. “Uh, thirteen?”

 

“ _Thirteen?”_ Bucky barks out a dismal laugh as he tugs at the waistband of Boomer’s pants.

 

Boomer nearly faints from embarrassment and quickly pushes his Dad’s hands away, jumping back and wedging the marble sink between them. “I-I got it.” He undresses without blinking, his eyes jammed downward to the tile, grateful for the cover provided by the steam that rapidly fills the room. He kicks off his shoes, finally ridding himself of all garments and hopping under the running water. He pulls back with a hiss when the searing water hits his skin, but his Dad’s hands at his shoulders hold him steady. “Owh! Dad!,” he wails. “You know that this could be considered abuse, right?”

 

“You know that I don’t really _give a shit_ , right?,” Bucky retorts. “Now hold still. It won’t get rid of all of it, but the hotter the better.”

 

Boomer wonders as his hair runs into his eyes if alphas are ever shamed for their reproductive status in life. It sure doesn’t seem like it. The world seems to have been created for and by alphas; with everything from music and media to religion and politics catering to the alpha mindset and whim. Omegas are meant to be soft-spoken, coy and subservient, at first to their sire and then to their mate. They hold the shame of the acts they commit within their bodies. Alphas get to walk away.

 

When his skin is beet red and hurts to the touch, he is allowed out of the shower. Bucky wraps a plush towel around his shoulders and throws one over his head to scrub-dry his hair. He feels sick to his stomach; the calming, comforting scent of his alpha has all but disappeared down the drain, leaving his aching heat-addled body burning all the more for his touch. He needs to get out of here, he needs to find Rumlow. Needs to be touched again by his alpha—to feel his teeth on his skin, his hands on his thighs, the pressure and the warmth and the heat of his breath against his open, yearning mouth.

 

Bucky leaves for a few moments and returns with a fresh pair of underwear and jeans and a rumpled shirt—one that looks like it’s seen better days—tucked under his arm. He sets down a glass of water on the counter. “Hold out your hand.”

 

Boomer glances up at him questioningly through damp bangs as he sits shivering on the closed toilet seat. “Why?”

 

“Hold out your hand,” Bucky repeats robotically, all emotion having drained from his voice.

 

Warily, Boomer unfolds his hand palm-up underneath his Dad’s closed fist and stifles a little gasp when a small white tablet drops into his hand. “Wh…what is…?”

 

“You _know_ what it is,” Bucky mumurs.

 

Boomer stares down at the unassuming little pill. Yes, he knows what it is. He wishes to God he didn’t. Then, he could take it without a care. He could just go on thinking it’s Tylenol, or a vitamin, or something to help him catch some desperately-needed sleep. The knot in his stomach cinches tight and he freezes in place. “I…”

 

“It’s just in case,” Bucky adds. “It’s too early to tell for sure, anyway.”

 

This is true. Boomer could swallow the little pill and never know. He’d never have to question…

 

Bucky kneels in front of him, sweeping a stray tendril out from his vision and tucking it behind his ear. “You know I love you. Right?” Bucky’s eyes search Boomers sadly, purposefully.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I could have crushed it in your dinner or something, so that’d you’d never have to know. So that you’d never feel the… but…but I want you to make the decision. This is a grown-up thing to have to do, sweetheart. I’m with you, okay? I’m right here.”

 

Boomer flicks a quivering tongue over his lips and doesn’t give himself a second of breath before popping the pill and chasing it down with the water. He winces and makes good of it with a harsh swallow before wiping his mouth and setting the glass down.

 

Bucky decides to change the subject by unfolding the tee shirt. It’s light gray and four sizes too big for his small frame, with a small Avengers ampersand embroidered on the chest. “Your Dad ran track today in this.”

 

Boomer wrinkles his nose. “What? No way! Ugck!”

 

Bucky wrestles the shirt on his squirming son, making sure to rub the smell all over his face and scent gland. Boomer’s stomach does backflips as he loses track of Rumlow’s heady musk, the omega in him balking at taking on any scent besides _his alpha’s_. “You want your Dad to find out? Hmm? Because believe me, that is one battle Rumlow will _not_ walk away from.”

 

Boomer freezes as what Bucky is saying hits him and he stares up into his eyes questioningly. “You…you’re not going to tell him?”

 

Bucky sidles away, chewing on his bottom lip. “Against my better judgement, no.”

 

A glimmer of hope lights up inside of him and he gasps, flashing his Dad a wide smile and stopping just short of throwing his arms around him. Bucky pays little regard, jamming the shirt down onto him the rest of the way before tossing his jeans and underwear in a heap on his naked lap. “Dad…you mean…?”

 

Bucky wags a finger at him. “Uh-uh. No. Don’t even ask. You and him are not a thing, okay? Never will be. So you get that stupidity out of your head right now.” 

 

Boomer’s heart sinks into a puddle on the floor at his feet. The second nature in him wonders if his Dad is jealous—after all, they were mates for who-knows-how-long. Maybe Bucky thought they’d be married eventually. Maybe he views his son as a rival omega. “Is it because you two were together?”

 

Bucky lets out a bitter laugh as he rolls up the dirty clothes and tosses them into the hamper. “No, Boom. It’s not that at all.”

 

Boomer flashes a snarky glare that says he is far less than convinced.

 

Bucky’s own furrowed brow suggests his patience is wearing terribly thin, but he takes a deep breath and closes the distance between them, angling Boomer’s chin up to meet his gaze. “Okay, let’s forget for a moment that he’s a stone-cold sonofabitch that’s had a hate-on with your Dad for years and that he’s over thirty years older than you. Sweetie, your Uncle Rumlow, he…he’s not the man you think he is.”

 

Boomer blinks. “What, you mean like he’s killed people? So what? So have you. Someday soon, so will I.”

 

Bucky ignores that unsettling last thought and addresses the first. “It’s not just that. Rumlow has done some pretty shitty things. He’s…I mean, you’ve never seen it but he’s genuinely, by nature, a pretty shitty human being.”

 

Boomer’s eyes narrow. “You’re right. I’ve never seen it.”

 

“And I’m trying to keep you from having to find that out on your own. If he ever hurt you, Boomer, I swear to God—” The muffled sound of the front door opening alerts them both and Bucky’s ears prick up. He holds up a finger in front of Boomer’s nose, his eyes burning into his. “Not a word of this. Understand? We’re just going to have to pray the shower and shirt do the trick.”

 

* * * * *

 

Steve nearly chokes out a sob when the toe of his boot hits Boomer’s duffel bag. “Oh, thank God.” He lets out a rush of air he’s been holding in for the past two days, his broad back hitting the door closed as he collapses against it. “Bailey? Bucky?”

 

“Shhhh….” Bucky pads down the hall in bare feet, one finger to his lips. “He’s sleeping.”

 

Steve’s long legs swallow the distance between them, launching his big arms around Bucky and lifting him off the floor. “Where did you find him?”

 

“Didn’t,” Bucky makes out between Steve’s neck and shoulder. “He came home, like he always does.”

 

Steve sets Bucky down gingerly, smoothing the wrinkles his big hug has set on Bucky’s tee shirt. “Is—is he okay? Where was he?”

 

“Yes, and I don’t know,” Bucky says truthfully.

 

Steve’s face warps suddenly and he quirks his head to one side. “Rumlow here?”

 

“Huh? Uhm, no.” Bucky curses inwardly as he shoves the bundle of dirty clothes behind him. “Uhhh, gimme a quick sec, would you? I was just going to get in the shower…”

 

“Sure, yeah uhm... But, why didn’t you call me? I mean, how long has he been home?”

 

“Literally for about twenty seconds,” Bucky explains. “Says Fury talked him into doing some short-term mission—“

 

“A mission? Boomer? But he’s—“

 

Bucky snaps a finger in his face. “Nah! Not another word, Rogers. We’ve talked about this. Boomer can do whatever the hell he’s good at, regardless of his reproductive class.”

 

“I was going to say, Boomer’s a student.”

 

Bucky feels his face flush. “Oh. Well, yeah, I mean I’m not happy about it either, but—“

 

“Not happy? Buck, you of all people should be livid. Why would Fury _do_ something like that? What gives him the _right_?”

 

“Because Fury knew what we’d say,” Bucky muses, soft-stepping his way backwards towards the bathroom. “Which is, pretty much all the shit we’re saying right now.”

 

Steve sighs, slipping off his jacket and absentmindedly tossing it on the coat-rack. “Okay. I’ll have a talk with him tomorrow morning. You take your shower,” he adds, giving Bucky a swift peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go fucking kill our son.”

 

Bucky shakes his head with a soft laugh, watching the lanky blond trot off in the direction of the bedroom. He glances at Boomer’s duffel, sweeping it up in his metal arm and taking a deep sniff. Yup, that needs to be washed too. He dumps the contents on the kitchen table and heads off to the laundry room.

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer does his best to keep his eyes shut and his face relaxed, but the omega in him scrapes and scrounges for Rumlow’s scent. He finds a spot buried behind his hair, just above his scent gland and rubs his pillow into it, whimpering. The heat swells in his belly, his entrance fluttering and clenching down, getting slick just from the thought of an alpha—his alpha—inside of him. The door slides open and huge arms go around him, hauling him halfway out of the bed and knocking the pillow off to the other side of the floor. Boomer bites his lip—both from the loss of the scent and the sudden concern that he can’t tell if his Dad is going to hug him or crush him to death—possibly both.

 

He feigns sleepiness, unsuccessfully swatting Steve’s shoulder as he is intruded upon, the bed groaning under the added weight as Steve slides into bed and gathers him into his arms. “Sweet boy, what did you do?” Steve sweeps back tendrils of still-damp hair, kissing Boomer’s forehead and locking his bicep under his arm.

 

“Nnng….Daaaad….” Boomer weakly pushes. Steve’s natural smell, would calm his nerves on a normal day, makes his stomach turn as the dying scent of the rival alpha fights to keep alive in the swirl of the clean, new, powerful scent. That is about the extent of his fight, however, and Boomer settles against the wide expanse of Steve’s chest with a pout.

 

“You’re going to give me an aneurism one of these days.” Steve’s eyes flicker up to the blank ceiling as the morning light streams in, rubbing away the wetness that dots his eyes and squeezing his baby boy tight.

 

When Bucky finishes with his shower, he slips in through the crack of the doorway and watches his favorite boys sleeping as he towels off his hair. With the evidence buried and agitating under two feet of hot sudsy water on the “sanitize” setting, Rumlow’s scent is faint and one would hardly notice unless they were searching for it. Bucky smells it all around him, though he can’t place the source. Maybe it’s just in his head, a distant memory dug up by sheer force. He flicks out his phone and bites down on his bottom lip as he types:

 

>From: Bucky’s Phone<

>To: Rumlow<

> i know<

 

 

His phone beeps before he can put it back in his pocket. He flips it open.

 

>From: Rumlow<

>To: Bucky’s Phone<

> did u tell your Cap?<

 

>To: Rumlow<

>From: Bucky’s Phone<

>i should<

>stay away from my son<

 

>To: Bucky’s phone<

>From: Rumlow<

>won’t work. U know that<

 

Bucky wears a split in his lip and jams the phone into his pocket. It beeps again but he ignores it, choosing instead to close the door on the slumbering duo. He pads off to the kitchen to help himself to whatever’s left of the whiskey.

 

* * * * *

 

Sasha stumbles backward in the doorway and even the pups inside of him jump. His breath is stolen away from him with one familiar, cold stare. The man who stands before him, who had knocked on the door and dared to enter their home, their haven, the only thing safe in this entire world, has a plastic smile stapled to his face. His hand goes up, stopping in mid-air just inches from Sasha’s face and Sasha can’t move, he can’t run. His mouth drops open in a silent scream as he clutches the door to keep upright.

 

_These are things that are not allowed. A true omega cares not for feelings or for their own desire, but for the desires of their alpha among all else._

He shoves the door forward in the closed position, but the man’s polished dress shoe keeps it wedged open. “Ah, ah, ah, dear Sasha. This is no way to treat a guest,” The man tisks. “Surely I trained you better. Is your alpha home?”

 

“R….Rollins…Jack.”

 

“Oh, my. It seems your speech has regressed as well. Or perhaps you don’t recognize me out of uniform?” His grin widens across thin lips as he pushes his way in. “And just look at you.” He levels his gray eyes to the impressive bump in Sasha’s stomach, and Sasha quickly veers, turning his hands protectively inward around his wriggling pups.

 

“Daddy?” A little blue-eyed girl peers at the strange man from behind Sasha’s leg, her chubby fingers threading through a long strand of his black hair.

 

“Hello, little one.” The man kneels and it’s everything Sasha can do to keep from ripping his child out from the gaze of the monster. “What’s your name?”

 

“Emma.”

 

“Emma? What a pretty name. Emma, is your Father home?”

 

The little girl nods, batting her long eyelashes against her plump pink cheeks.

 

“Excellent. Do you think you could deliver this for me?” The man slides a large, ornately embossed envelope into her outstretched hand, giving her a slow nod and smiling when she follows suit. “Such a good girl! She follows instruction so well, just like her little Daddy.”

 

Sasha gathers the courage and steps between them, his eyes burning down into the man’s. “Leave.” The man is too close—his scent is overpowering and sterile-smelling and sick, and Sasha winces, clutching his belly as one of the pups kicks grievingly.

 

The man loops one finger into the silver collar around his throat and pulls him forward. Sasha stifles a whimper and throws his head to the side, pursing his mouth together and holding in a sharp breath. “My God, you are more beautiful now than the day you came to me. I won’t lie my dear, it was so hard letting you go. But, seeing you like this…” His hand drifts downward, cupping Sasha’s firm belly and feeling the life underneath. His eyes flutter closed and his mouth parts as if listening to a favorite symphony. “It has all been worth it. That being said, I am happy to know that your body will be free of pups come the Gala this year.” He releases, and Sasha tears away. The man lets out an entertained chuckle. “I wanted to remind you in person that your two lovely omega children—Tasha and Jackie is it?—are requested at the dinner as well this year. Their current medical reports indicate that they have both come into heat and…” He inserts a throaty chuckle. “You and I both know what that entails.” The disgustingly familiar grin returns and he drifts back through the doorway. “I look forward to seeing you there as well. What a pretty little family you make.”

 

Sasha collapses against door panting and locks it as it closes, clutching little Emma to his side and stroking her hair back with a shaking hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Go…go get your Father.”

 

The little girl goes on her way, hobbling off as the envelope slips from her grasp and onto the floor. Sasha picks it up—wants so badly to burn it, to cut it into a million pieces, for what good it would do. He runs a slender finger along the delicately scalloped edges, unfolding it and hesitantly sliding the paper out. He lets the letter drift to the table and backs away as if it’s loaded.

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

Softly spoken murmurs and the sound of people shuffling in the hall slowly break through the starless void. Unfortunately, so do the pins-and-needles of his nerves, alerting him to the various parts of his body that suddenly alight with fire. “Mmh….” He slides open his one working eye, and a fuzzy picture of a red-headed figure slumped over his lap on top of crisp white sheets works its way through his consciousness. “Boomer?”

 

“He’s been like that all night,” a deep, unfamiliar voice comes next from some distant vicinity of the room. Leo blinks upward to see a black-suited man in black shades and a black tie, arms crossed in front of him, peering out the window.

 

“Wh…where am I?”

 

The most recent of his memories involves staring up a 5-story shaft at a figure glaring down at him and holding his arm into the socket while he struggled to breathe. His mind’s eye narrows in on Rumlow’s face and he gasps, the cool dry air of the room scraping into his lungs. He barks out a few painful coughs and the body to the side of the bed stirs.

 

“Leo?” Boomer snaps his sleepy eyes open and grasps on to his hands, which are covered in medical tape and IVs, jamming them back down to his sides.

 

“He’s awake,” the suited stranger mutters into his earpiece.

 

Boomer glares at the man over his shoulder before turning back to tap Leo’s back as hard as he dare as he strains forward and gasps for air. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’ve had a breathing tube in. That’s why your throat is so dry.” After a few quick taps, when Leo’s coughing subsides, he lifts up a Styrofoam cup to his lips. “Here. It’s water.”

 

Leo sucks in a mouthful of the room-temperature liquid, grateful at least for its coating abilities, and swallows weakly. “Thanks.” His head drifts back to the pillow with a few last attempts to clear his throat, and he turns to the startled blue eyes monitoring him. He slides a smile—not too wide, there’s a gash on his bottom lip that threatens to split—to try and calm him. He reaches his hand up, giving Boomer’s a soft squeeze. “I-I’m okay. Really.”

 

Boomer slides back into the rolling chair beside the hospital bed with a look that says he’s not totally convinced, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’d ask you how you feel but…”

 

“Like shit,” Leo says, and cough/laughs. He nods his head to the man standing guard over his bed. “Who’re you?”

 

“No worries,” Boomer interjects. “He’s with us. Trying to keep the Feds at bay till Fury gets here.” He reaches up, stroking a bead of moisture from Leo’s eyebrow with his thumb. “I was worried about you.”

 

“—worried about _you,_ ” Leo returns. “How…the mission? How’d it go?”

 

Boomer grins triumphantly. “Castle’s a total dipshit. He’s not so bad at all. At least, if you’re not a murderer, I guess.” He flashes the purple knuckles of his hand like a trophy, scraped red and chapped with dry blood. “I punched him.”

 

Leo’s eyebrows fly up. “You. Punched the Punisher.”

 

Boomer nods. “Yup.”

 

Leo shakes his head, incredulous, delicately turning Boomer’s fist in his hand. “So, is he..?”

 

“Don’t worry about that right now. Now that you’re awake, we need to work on getting you out of here.”

 

“Don’t know if I can walk…” Leo attempts to shift the bottom half of him that disappears under the hospital blanket and groans at the sudden scrape of bone-on-bone and a sharp searing pain ripples down him.

 

“Don’t!” Boomer shoves him back down with two firm hands on his shoulders.

 

“AAAgh—!”

 

“Oh. Sorry.” Boomer staggers away a little, hands raised defensively. “You can’t get up right now anyway. Both your legs are busted, among other things.”

 

Leo winces, holding his side. “And should I ask what the ‘other things’ are?”

 

Boomer shrugs. “You did a number. Like, 5 broken ribs I think the docs said. Several lacerations. A broken arm. You’re back’s a mess. And your face looks really fucked-up.”

 

Leo grins through clenched teeth. “Gee. Thanks.”

 

“We were really worried about you.”

 

Leo’s gaze, which had been drifting back up into the calming nothingness of the ceiling, lowers again to Boomer’s. “ _’We’_?”

 

“Rumlow and me.” Boomer states matter-of-factly.

 

Leo’s eyes flash darkly and a growl ebbs its way through his parched throat. He coughs again. “He here?”

 

Boomer’s head tilts downward, his blood-red bangs falling into his face. “No.”

 

Leo’s shoulders relax a bit.

 

“Sso…….” Boomer absentmindedly tugs on the edge of the hospital blanket, and Leo shifts as much as he can towards the calming sensation of the cotton drifting against his skin. The scent that drifts up from Boomer is mild, beckoning, sweet. It rounds off the spike in his blood pressure from his frazzled nerves and his overworked immune system that’s been fighting back at the pain. “What happened anyway?”

 

Icecicles pierce his spine and he slams his eyes to the far wall. “I…don’t know. Must have tripped.”

 

“Tripped?,” Boomer murmurs disbelievingly, one quizzical eyebrow raised. “Mr. 2nd-in-class Krav Maga world champion, top-Shield-graduate, karate instructor Leo Maroni. Tripped?”

 

Leo shrugs. “It happens.”

 

Boomer’s eyes darken. “Yeah, sure it happens. But not five-stories down a wrenched-open elevator shaft.”

 

“Who said it was wrenched open?”

 

Boomer’s eyes dart away guiltily. “I…may have gone to check out the scene myself.”

 

Leo scoffs, turning away once more and meeting the eyes of the agent at the foot of his bed. “Is Fury on his way?”

 

“He’s sending a transport.”

 

Leo lands a gentle touch on Boomer’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Go home, Boom. The mission is over. Get some sleep.”

 

“I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately. Plus,” he shakes his head coolly before burying it in his hands. “I really just don’t want to deal with the parents right now.”

 

Leo smiles. “I see. If it makes you feel any better, just image the shit they’re going to give Fury about sending you in to do his dirty-work.”

 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing Rumlow followed us. If he hadn’t found you when he did…” Boomer’s voice trails off, lost in thought.

 

Leo is too late to stop a sarcastic snicker from eking out. “Yeah. Right.”

 

Boomer flashes him a dirty look. “Dude, Leo. I get you guys aren’t best friends or anything, but you could have died.”

 

Leo stirs uncomfortably, as if any amount of movement he can muster could stop this conversation from happening. Boomer’s eyes so innocent and trusting, what started as a game between friends is so rapidly turning into something else and Leo’s not sure he could forgive himself if Boomer knew the truth about his horrid uncle. He doesn’t want to stop pursuing Boomer—but if it means running the risk of getting thrown down yet another elevator shaft, he might not have a choice. Sure, he has youth on his side but that’s just about fucking it. Rumlow is the heavyweight champion of the S.t.r.i.k.e. team, and nobody—nobody can rival his skills, his experience or his sheer instinct. If he wants Leo to back off…

 

“Just go home, Boom. Please.”

 

Boomer’s mouth snaps shut. That familiar fire returns to his eyes, the unquenchable burn that tells Leo he is rearing up for a fight. “No! No, I’m sorry, you don’t get to send me away. Who the hell do you think you are?”

 

“Boomer—“

 

“He saved your fucking life. And I’m here because my stupid ass was worried about you and I didn’t want you to wake up alone. Well, fuck that, because you’re Leo fucking Maroni and you are God’s gift to the world and you don’t need anybody. You ungrateful fucking _prick_!”

 

“Boomer—“

 

“Ya know something, maybe Rumlow’s right about you. Maybe you _do_ see me as just another potential fuck-hole.” Boomer rises from his spot beside the bed with a disdainful sneer, jamming a hand into his pockets and turning away. “You know why I picked you to be my second in this mission? Because…for just five seconds there… I actually thought you were my friend.”

 

“Boomer, I _am your—Boomer!”_ Leo raises out of the bed, arms shaking, grasping for control as the cup of water tumbles over the side and spills onto the floor. Boomer stops momentarily in the doorway, unblinking, eyes forward. “I am your friend. I swear. But, Rumlow knows that _yeah_ , I wanna be more. At first maybe this did start out like that…like you were just another conquest, okay? I’ll be honest. But…I can’t get you out of my head. I was worried you might choose someone else for the mission, cause I know you’re still in heat. I can smell it on you.” A light blush rests on Boomer’s cheeks. “Maybe that’s why…” Leo’s tongue flicks out over his lips. “Maybe that’s why he did it.”

 

Boomer’s breath leaves his body as he turns in the doorway to stare Leo down. “Did…did what?”

 

Leo sinks back into the bed, the life falling from his face, all fronts that he’s not exhausted and in pain and on the verge of crying leaving his expression.

 

“Leo.” Boomer takes a few timid steps closer to the bed, as if each might bring him closer to a truth he really doesn’t want to know. “What did Rumlow do?”

 

“He’s right, you know.” Leo eyes flit back up to the ceiling and he squeezes them shut as a migraine gnaws its way into his brain. “I would have…I would have probably mated you, if you’d let me. I’m a fucking disgusting animal that way, I guess. But would you have blamed me?” One last look out of the corner of his vision at Boomer’s glistening eyes makes his heart skip a beat. “I’m sorry, Boomer. Maybe we can’t be friends. I never meant to hurt you. I’m…I’m glad Rumlow stopped me.”

 

“That’s…” Boomer shakes his head, letting out a bitter little laugh that Leo doesn’t understand. “That’s not why he did it.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“That’s not why he did it, at all. Leo…” Boomer balls his hands at his sides, flexing them into tighter and tighter fists. “Rumlow…Rumlow and I…I mean…”

 

Every part of his body goes rigid and falls away as he lets out an icy chuckle. “Oh…I see.” He nods his head, letting his cold laughter drift up and reverberate against the ceiling tiles even as his mind scrambles to grasp this new—nearly unbelievable—information. “ _He_ mated you, didn’t he?”

 

Boomer turns beet red, angry eyes welling. “Yeah.” He pinches his mouth shut, drilling his eyes down into the floor.

 

“You’re _his_ fuck-hole.”

 

Boomer’s eyes snap up. “Don’t say that! It’s not…It’s not like that!”

 

Leo quirks an eyebrow at him, a rush of indignation breathing life back into his overworked synapses. “Isn’t it? Boom, you _hated_ the guy not a week ago. And now—“ he barks out a laugh “—now he has you taking his knot like a wet little whore. He didn’t want to save you from me. He wanted to save you for himself. Damn! He must have been perving after you for quite a long time now…that explains so many things. I guess it doesn’t matter that you’re practically his blood.”

 

“Fuck you!,” Boomer spits, ignoring the solemn raised eyebrow from the poor agent forced to listen in.

 

“No thanks,” Leo calls out after him as Boomer turns and bolts out the door. It nearly bounces off its hinges, the glass rattling in the metal frame, slamming shut with a resounding “CRACK.” He stares back up at the blank ceiling and bites his quivering lip.

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer makes it into the parking lot and into the safety of his Dad’s beat up old Chevy before throwing himself over the steering wheel and dissolving into heaving sobs.

 

_“He’s genuinely, by nature, a pretty shitty human being. And I’m trying to keep you from having to find that out on your own.”_

 

* * * * *

 

Sasha eyes Rumlow warily from the living room floor as he stacks multi-colored blocks among the seven toddlers that play along with him. Rumlow snaps his phone shut, for the fifth time in an hour, muttering, “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Triston, play nice with Sophie and Troy,” Sasha commands, rising to his feet and sliding down into the end of the couch closest to Rumlow. “He hasn’t called you back?”

 

Rumlow glares across at him. “How the fuck would you know?”

 

Sasha lets out a little chuckle as a baby crawls up into his disappearing lap (the end of this week will be closing in on his delivery date). “I can smell him on you. And you haven’t…touched me…” (he uses the term loosely) “…since you came home. You are now a soully-mated alpha.”

 

“Guess so.” Rumlow jams the phone back into his pocket, giving him a sideways glance. “Nosy little cunt, aren’t you?”

 

Sasha ignores him with all the grace and dignity of an angel, opening his button-up shirt to let his pup nurse. The uncomfortable look Rumlow gives him does not escape him—neither does the irony that a man who would so willingly suck away during breeding him be so repulsed by the natural function of feeding pups. “Are you kind to him?” Sasha’s heart falls just a bit—he was so hoping that he could hold this off, hold Rumlow at bay just a while longer for the boy to find a good, solid alpha to love him properly. But there’s no going back now, and no use dwelling on something he can’t change.

 

“What the fuck does it matter to you?” Rumlow plucks the glass of brandy from the stand beside him and drains it in one gulp. “So long as I’m not plowing _your_ hole anymore.”

 

Sasha’s smile turns cold and his arms go around the black-haired little baby that is quickly falling asleep on what little lap he has to offer. “I’m not asking for myself.”

 

Rumlow replies with what Sasha thinks must be the very first genuine look Rumlow has ever given him. “I love him.”

 

“I know.”

 

A sudden crashing sound from the adjacent room startles them both and Sasha jumps up, baby still attached, to pad off towards it. When he opens the bedroom door, the crash becomes a distinct tearing sound as Rollins throws every available item off the dresser in one gargantuan swoop. “Jack?!” Sasha clutches the pup to his chest and covers his delicate little ears as he stomps towards his seething alpha. “JACK, STOP!”

 

With a final roar, Jack topples the dresser, making the pup jump in Sasha’s arms. He stands in the midst of the wreckage, panting and red-faced, the blue veins of his neck popping up as he turns his head towards his mate. Sasha flattens his back to the wall, but recognizes the tears that threaten to spill down Rollins’ face and opts to calm him instead, stepping forward and running a soothing hand down his side. “Jack?” Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the delicately embossed envelope on the bed and plucks it up, giving him a knowing look.

 

“They…they can’t do this.” Jack shakes his head as he dissolves down to the bed, pulling Sasha forwards as he sinks down, resting his head on his swollen belly and tugging at the dangling feet of their nursing child. One powerful arm folds him closer as Sasha strokes his head back.

 

“Jack, what did you think would happen? You knew this was coming. I wasn’t a gift. I was a loaned animal, given to you for a price.”

 

“I know, Sosh. I know. But…these are our kids, they’re our babies. I…” His eyes flash upward, rimming red and glistening wet. “They can’t just take them!”

 

“They are the property of Highland. You know this.” Sasha’s cold tone belies the feather-light strokes as his fingers glide through Rollin’s jet-black hair. He is Rumlow’s age, but he likes to hide the gray by having Sasha dye it once a month.  He looks older in this moment than he has looked in years. “Besides, the alphas are null. They only want the omega children. And surely they are less import—“

 

Rollins eyes slam into his. “Don’t. Don’t you DARE say that. You know I love our kids, regardless of their stupid fucking reproductive assignment! I knew this day would come I just---it came so soon. How do I tell them?”

 

Sasha’s mind drifts back to a cold fall day in Ukraine; being torn from his parents and loaded onto a military vehicle with frightened kids of the same age. They huddled together for warmth under the tarp on the ride to the Facility, where they were selected for the Highland Breeding Program.  “We don’t. It is better that way. You tell them we are going to a fancy dinner. They will attend. They will be given a sedative so that they are calm during the auction. If we are compliant, we might even get to visit…”

 

“NO!,” Rollins barks, rising from his place on the bed to wear boot tracks five inches deep into the carpet. “Do you hear me? NO! I—I will fix this. For them. For us. I will do whatever it takes.”

 

“What are you thinking of doing?,” Sasha asks, his voice hushed. “You cannot expose the Organization. It will do absolutely no good. There are sanctions in place to protect their—“

 

“Fuck the sanctions!” Rollins clamps a hand over his mouth in hurried thought. “I think…Yeah. I think I know what I’m gonna do.” He plants a firm kiss on Sasha’s forehead and rushed out the door, field jacket in hand. He pauses at the door to shoot a dirty look and a pointed finger at Rumlow, who raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you dare fucking TOUCH him, you filthy piece of shit.”

 

The door slams behind him before Rumlow can utter a word.

 

* * * * *

 

“Sir. Jack Rollins, here to see you.”

 

Aleric stirs some more cream into his coffee, watching the dainty white color swirl into the black void and become a silky brown. “Show him in,” he orders, tapping the side of the glass with his spoon and sitting back in his plush office recliner. The Partners all laughed when he said he wanted Headquarters to be set up high on the hills in this old resort, but he is quite pleased with the resultant design and overall feel of the place: its stoic façade comes to life in the early hours of the morning, fresh white sunlight streaming in from the tall red curtains. It is quiet; far enough away from the city to be protected against the smog and the bustle of traffic but close enough to easily…collect…his yearly harvest. What once was a basement operations of a small-time black market exchange has flourished into a legitimate, scientifically-based, (quietly) government approved program whose growth that has no signs of slowing down.

 

The uniform-clad soldier struts in like a mad bull. He is a man barely contained, and it makes Aleric smile. Well, if nothing else, this promises to be entertaining. His face is flushed and exhausted and it looks as if he must have walked the twenty-seven miles from town.

 

He slides on a debonair smile, tilting his head upward to greet the frazzled alpha. “Good morning, Sergeant Rollins. I don’t usually accept visitors this earl—“

 

“Cut the shit,” Rollins growls, marching straight past the desk to peer down at him. Aleric frowns. “You know why I’m here, so no bullshit, okay? Let’s talk, you and me. Alpha to alpha.”

 

Oh, how Aleric enjoys that word. His smile widens across his seamless face and he takes a leisurely sip of his coffee. “Did you know Sasha was my favorite?”

 

Rollins tiny mind—understandably—takes a few moments to process the comment before blinking down at him and replying, “Yes.”

 

“Good. Did you also know that I was ordered by my Council to find a suitable mate for him even though I had chosen him for myself?”

 

“I…n-no.”

 

“As I suspected. Can you imagine why that is? I was in love with him, you see. Deeply in love.” Aleric watches the storm clouds gather behind Rollins’ eyes, the talk of having his mate taken by another Alpha nearly too much to bear. How fascinating. “But he could not live up to his full genetic potential if he stayed in my company. You see, unlike you, dear Rollins, I am sterile. The result of my unfortunate breeding, and though perhaps my only flaw, it is my greatest bane. That is why I gifted him to you. Your semen levels were above-satisfactory and I assumed you would be a good mate for him, seeing as Sasha is in need of a stern hand at times.” He clicks his tongue when Rollins shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is talk of your reproductive functions distracting to you, Sergeant?”

 

“No.” Rollins looks away.

 

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you. Just as your instinct to preserve the innocence of your omega offspring is admirable. But ask yourself this—are you limiting their reproductive potential? Very few omegas remain unmated after their first few heats. We do not want them to seem inoperative or fruitless to potential Alphas. Your desire to preserve them stems not from being their sire, but from being their first Alpha. It is a completely natural feeling. I have several books by Jung and Freud, to name a few, and they are at your disposal to borrow, assuming you read.”

 

Rollins ignores the balk and rounds the desk once more, choosing the chair to the left to slide into. So he’s trying a new tactic. Perhaps if Aleric sees him as an equal instead of intimidating him, he will get what he wants. The Alpha mindset is simply engrossing! He is so big his entire body swallows up the tiny chair, bulging muscles rippling out of the uniform shirt that Aleric is certain he chose for the simple fact that it was two sizes too small. He licks his lips, the emotions scrambling together and bubbling up to the surface. Aleric is guessing that in his line of work, emotions are rarely needed much less encouraged so he must wonder where they go when they can no longer be contained. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

“Hmm….” He takes a delicate sip of his coffee, swirling it all the way around his tongue before swallowing, the coffee and creamer dancing on his taste buds accordingly.

 

“What if…” Rollins leans forward and my god he’s practically oozing out of the seat, unable to contain the torrent of fear that rolls over him. A man about to lose anything will do just about anything… “What if I told you I can get you someone better than my pups.”

 

Aleric quirks a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Better? My dear boy, “better” does not exist outside of the realm of the pups Sasha Dragnov. I can assure you.”

 

Rollins shakes his head. “That’s not true. Look, if you work with me here. Let Sasha and me and our kids go…free us from this…this program…I can get you…the scientific equivalent of the eighth wonder of the world.”Aleric lets out a doubtful huff, as if a simple S.t.r.i.k.e. agent could possibly know what counts for that kind of value in the world of Eso-Genetic Manufacturing. Rollins voice lowers to the floor, staring intently at the scientist. “Because you know the one thing you don’t have? The offspring of the very first serum.”

 

Aleric sets his cup down on the desk, careful to show too much interest, folding his hands in front of himself and gathering the loose strands of his patience. “To whom are you referring, Sergeant Rollins?”

 

“I can get you the son of the Winter Solider and Captain America, the original recipients of the purest strain of the serum. I can give you Bailey Barnes.”

 

 


	7. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sets his jaw with a cold huff. “Jesus Christ, Buck. Is there anything else I’ve been missing? Any other little surprises I should know about? Or does Rumlow boning our son and you popping the morning-after pill like skittles pretty much sum it up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a "nice" chapter, but it's a lot better than the one that comes next. I am warning you guys now, because I think it's only fair and you've been so wonderful to stick it out with me so far. I promise the ending of this fic will be happy! There's just a lot of nasty stuff that happens between now and then... :( That being said, Rumlow gets (some of) his just desserts and we finally get to see AngryPapaBear!Steve! Yay!

It feels good to get back into training. The last few days, the horrible effects of his heat have subsided, leaving him with a clear enough head to focus on his moves. The feel of Rumlow’s old gloves as they slip just a little over his too-small hands, the dense sound his fists make as they connect with the bag, the sting of his muscles from the impact. This place is his sanctuary, his safehouse. He can stay well after dark as long as he doesn’t leave Campus, and rarely is there anybody using the gym after 8:30. For the most part, it’s all his. The bag swings back on him after a few good strikes and he starts in with his legs. Even for his compact size, he is powerful; probably something to do with being the offspring of two super-soldiers, even if he is just a lowly omega.  He delivers a brutal roundhouse kick on that thought, and the chain that suspends the bag to the ceiling snaps on the rebound. His body doesn’t like it—his leg muscles cry out for reprieve so he just goes at it harder, willing his body to _submit,_ to do what he wants it to do just as his body does what Rumlow wants it to do, what Leo wants it to do. With a sharp roar he delivers blow after blow until his legs burn from the assault so hard they start to lock up. Then he switches back to punches, starting the process all over again.

 

“Hey.” The soft, quiet voice from the shadows earns a jump and his eyes snap towards the direction of the sound. Rumlow slithers into the dim overhead lighting. The lines of his face are more pronounced, his eyes sunken in slightly. He looks exhausted. “Mind if I join?”

 

Boomer’s eyes narrow but he gives him one sharp nod and Rumlow steps into the ring, grabbing the bag with his calloused hands that are already wrapped and it makes Boomer wonder just how long he’s been watching him unnoticed.

 

 He wraps his taught, muscular arms around the bag and slaps the upper center. “Right here.” He hunkers down into position, bracing himself against the bag as Boomer delivers the blows.

 

If he hits it hard enough, he could leave a bruise on him. Boomer’s fists fly into the bag with silent, pinpoint accuracy, throwing in a kick every now and then just to keep Rumlow on his toes. He is strong. He is a soldier, and not just someone’s fuck-toy plaything. He wasn’t put here on this earth solely to take a cock, despite what others think. And if they think that…if they think that he is some weak-willed, flighty, subservient _omega_ then—

 

“Easy! Easy!” Rumlow rocks back on his heels on the mat, grasping the back and shoving back, visibly straining against the onslaught. “STOP!” He grabs Boomer’s ankle and throws it back at him, causing Boomer to stumble backward and catch himself from falling by grasping the bag.

 

Boomer stares hard and straight-on into nothingness, eyes focused on the black leather bag as he gasps for air. He braces himself against it and wipes his mouth with his arm, giving it one half-hearted jab before spinning on his heel and collapsing onto the bench against the wall. Rumlow, who is equally just as winded, grabs two towels off the rack, throwing one to Boomer. Wordlessly, he slumps beside him and coils the towel around his neck. They sit staring into the darkness for quite some time, and Boomer hates just how much he wants to touch Rumlow, hates how he aches to jump into his arms and renew the scent that has been steadily disappearing from his skin, wants to open himself up to him and take him in even though his heat is pretty much over. It turns his stomach, the thought that he wants to give himself to this sick fuck that nearly killed his partner. Just for a quick lay. Just _because._ And Boomer had fallen for it like a sloppy-holed whore.

_Daddy had been right about everything._

 

“Okay.” With little surprise, Rumlow speaks first. He puts his hands on his knees like a coach about ready to have a heart-to-heart with his quarterback. “So this is what us grown-ups do when we have an issue with someone. We _talk_ to them, Boom.”

 

Boomer slides up out of the bench and stalks towards the locker room.

 

“Boomer, come on!” Rumlow follows like a lost puppy, trotting on Boomer’s heels as he reaches his locker and throws it open with a “SLAM”. “You haven’t fucking responded to any of my texts. I call and you don’t answer. I—I don’t get it. What’s goin’ on? Is…is it your Dads? I told you we’d work it out together.” Boomer throws his shirt off and tosses it in the bottom of the locker, his sweat amplifying the sultry omega odor and hitting Rumlow head-on. His eyes flutter and he gulps down a shaky swallow, bracing himself against the next locker.

 

Boomer scoffs, partially at the comment and partially at the helpless way Rumlow is looking him up and down. “Yeah. That’s what you said.” He hurriedly throws on a fresh shirt, not wanting to press his luck, and swipes his duffel from the top shelf.

 

“Boom, _please._ ” It’s at this moment that Boomer wonders if Brock has ever had to beg for something in his entire life. He seems like the kind of guy that just _takes_ what he wants. Though, apparently, Boomer doesn’t know Brock as well as he thought in the first place. Rumlow’s hand falls along the small of his back, the calloused tips of his fingers barely etching down his warm skin and it send electricity skittering through Boomer.

 

“Stop!” Boomer pulls away, not giving his body a chance to linger on the sensation, but it’s too late, it’s practically _singing_ for his touch and his scent gland opens like a flower, like he never scrubbed it away. It smells like Rumolw and himself and their lovemaking and the knot that binds them together…

 

“I can’t Boomer, I’m so sorry. God send me to hell now, because I fucking _can’t_.”

 

 Rumlow’s face is in his hair now, his lips warm and wet against his ear, hovering close, so close to the gland and suddenly Boomer can’t breathe. The fingers press harder in and the warmth swells in his stomach and between his legs, as if his heat had never faded. It lights up deep within him, an aching, delving _burn._ His head turns into the touch, their open mouths grazing together, the heat mingling between their breaths. He throws his head away and stumbles backward, clutching his stomach with a whine he can’t keep down. “D-don’t touch me,” he hisses, holding up a defensive hand, his eyes glistening in the dim light of the room.  “Not after what you did. You conceited, self-serving _bastard._ ”

 

Rumlow seems to snap out of it, too, if only slightly, his fingers molded mid-air where Boomer’s body once was, and if his face is any indication, his brain is throwing itself into reverse trying to scramble for clues as to what went wrong.

 

“You need a hint? _Really?_ Seriously, Brock do you do that much destructive shit during a week that you have to, like, _think_ about it?”

 

“Yes,” Brock barks and it would be comical if it wasn’t so goddamn sad.

 

Boomer lets out a bitter laugh. The needy pangs in his lower stomach are still there but he is riding them out, even as he’s hating himself for how wet he’s getting with his natural slick.

 

“Boomer. I love you. I don’t give a shit whether you believe it or not, whether you love me back or not, it’s the fucking truth. I would do anything for you. You say jump, I’m there. That’s how this—“ Rumlow waves a hand between them—“that’s how this works!”

 

“There is no _“this”_ ,” Boomer hisses. “Get that out of your tiny brain right now. You blew any chance you had the second you threw Leo down that shaft!”

 

Rumlow’s face drains of all color as the words hit him head-on like a semi. “So that’s it,” he mumurs under his breath, adding in the midst of a bitter chuckle, “Fucking nark. He told you.”

 

“No, he didn’t _tell me_. I figured it out. Because I have brains too, Uncle Rummy, even if I am just your slutty omega _fuck-hole._ ”

 

“That’s not true. Don’t fucking say that. You know that’s not how I feel. What was I ‘sposed to do? To let him fuck you? That really what you want? _Really?”_

“That wasn’t for you to decide! Besides, you just wiped the floor with the competition, didn’t you? Yeah, you really saved the day.” Boomer huffs the duffel further up on his shoulder and follows the opposite wall to the door, keeping a long wooden bench between them.  

 

Rumlow crosses the gap in two quick strides, easily clearing the bench before Boomer can break away, gathering him in his arms and wrenching both hands behind his back. He releases a guttural growl, barley holding back the storm unfolding behind his eyes. “I know what it looks like, but I swear, Boomer. I didn’t expect…” He swallows hard, his alpha nature engulfing any common sense left. “I’ve waited so long. You are just so…Boomer, I wanna…”  


Boomer snaps in his face, reaching up on his toes to glare into his alpha’s eyes. “What? WHAT? You gonna fuck me again, huh? Show me who my alpha is?”

 

“That what you want?” Rumlow’s eyes grow dark, his pupils blowing wide and wrenching his grip tighter around Boomer’s wrists, teeth clenched and hovering centimeters over Boomer’s mouth.

 

Boomer closes the gap, jamming his mouth into Rumlow’s and pulling him down into a harsh kiss. Rumlow slams him into the lockers, tumbling after him, pressing their chests together feverishly as he tears at the frustratingly fresh tee shirt to get to the glistening skin underneath. Boomer cries out against the touch, tugging at short hair at the back of Rumlow’s head hard enough to rip it out.

 

“Boomer, you ready to go—?” Steve’s voice cuts off and Boomer can see him out of the corner of his eye, shadowing the open doorway, car keys in hand.

 

Boomer stifles a small gasp against Rumlow’s mouth, ice freezing in his veins and choking off the supply of air to his lungs. Rumlow ceases all movement, as if even pulling away at this point would warrant his death.

 

Steve’s expression is hidden mostly by the darkness of the hallway, but Boomer hears his teeth click together once, his jaw set tight. “Brock. Would you mind removing your tongue from my son’s mouth.”

He pronounces each syllable slowly, deliberately, as if delivering a verdict. 

 

Rumlow shifts away without a sound, sliding one step backward, slowly, as if the floor is ice and any sudden movement could open the tiles and swallow him up into a black abyss.

 

There is no explaining this. There is no way to make the scene look like anything other than what it is; the visceral reality of the consequences hit him like a freight train. No sense in redirecting, now—the whole thing will derail. “Dad—“

 

“In the car, Bailey.”

 

“Dad, I—“

 

“CAR, Bailey. Now.”

 

In a strange way, he is thankful for his father’s intervention. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten to give any though to the fact that his Dad was working late at the Avengers Tower and would be swinging by to drive him back home. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want the constant reminder that he got taken advantage of and he was stupid for letting it happen in the first place. His Dad has at least saved him from hating himself in the morning (if there indeed _is_ a morning for him to look forward to). However, the lingering desire to preserve his alpha holds him back, the hesitancy showing in his eyes as he backs away, sliding off from the lockers and collecting his duffel. He quickly brushes past his Dad without making eye contact, the thought of begging for Rumlow’s life gnawing away at his gut.  

 

* * * * *

 

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/DaddySteve1_zps5jucamcd.jpg.html)

Steve learned a long time ago how to shake like a wet poodle on the _inside_ while remaining completely stoic on the outside. He learned how to breathe calmly and slow his heart rate even in the midst of it breaking. He lets out a slow, deliberate breath, feeling the heat of it against his closed lips and steps into the light. The wavering step backward that Rumlow offers in response is slightly satisfying, even though it doesn’t stop him from wondering how long this has been going on behind his back.

 

He knows the way established lovers hold each other. It’s the same way he’s held Bucky for a good twenty-one years, now. The gaping mouths as they kiss as if they depend upon the other person to be able to draw breath, the fingernails that drag down newly-bitten, heat-flushed skin. He is no prude—he never intended to lock his baby boy away in an ivory tower and keep him from ever having any semblance of a healthy, thriving love life. But not _this_. Not _him_. He folds his keys neatly into his pocket and slides onto the end of the nearest bench, hands clasped in front of him and focuses on steadying his breath so his voice comes out clear, even, unwavering. “When Bucky told me he had asked you to be the Godfather of our children, I made it no secret that I had my reservations. It had nothing do to with the fact that you and Bucky had a past. Or that you were at one time a double-agent with Hydra—hell, maybe you still are—it had to do with integrity, Brock.” Steve levels his eyes at the man now staring at him. Neither of them are blinking. “I’m not even sure if you know what the word means, let alone how it pertains to you.”

 

“Cap—“

 

“You see, my problem, Brock—“ Steve launches himself to his feet, coming to hover mere inches from the shorter man in two quick strides. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy the look of unadulterated terror Rumlow’s eyes. “—was that you would get too close, that you would influence them and that the dark, twisted little _stain_ you are would somehow seep through their impressionable little minds and that I could do nothing to change the outcome once you had.” The possibility of Bucky’s betrayal starts to seep through, muddling his train of thought. “I…I guess I wasn’t wrong.”

 

“Cap, you gotta believe me, I had no intention—“  Steve’s fist sails into the locker near Brock’s ear, the scream of metal-on-metal piercing the air as he dents a crater into it. Rumlow veers away, both hands held up defensively. “Fuck—EASY, big guy!”

 

Steve turns on his heel, leaving as silently as he had come, stalking out towards the parking lot. His icy stare snaps to the vehicle in black, Bucky’s Jeep that Steve had borrowed for the day, and the redhead seated in it. The lamplight of the lot casts a dark shadow over the interior, and the more the better. Whatever the look on his son’s face, he hopes he’s watching what comes next. He makes a quick stop to open up the back end and slide his shield onto his arm. He thinks he hears a little squeak and Bailey saying something from the front seat, but slams the trunk shut before it can register.

 

Rumlow has always been somewhat of a connoisseur when it comes to cars—this newest model is a Bugatti Veyron—Steve only knows the model because it’s all Rumlow has been able to talk about in overhead conversations at Shield. She is a glossy burgundy color with white racing stripes and Steve is guessing it probably is costing Brock an entire year’s salary in upkeep alone—she is immaculate.

 

“Cap—“ The idiot is trotting up after him, as if anything he says now will do him any good. “Cap—let’s not resort to our baser instincts, here. We-we can talk this out, okay?”

 

Steve stares down the slick little sports car and wonders, for just a moment, if Rumlow and his son have done it in the car. Maybe on the hood. Maybe just one time, maybe a dozen times. He lets that thought linger as he sends his arm—shield in hand—through the windshield. It shatters instantly, the blow obliterating it into tiny crystals with no more force than it would take for him to crack open a bottle of beer. The piercing cry coming from behind him is just sweet, sweet music to add to the symphony. He tears the mirrors from their pockets, throwing one to either end of the parking lot and watching them explode like pop cans. One tire gives him a bit of trouble upon ripping it off the rim and he actually works up a sweat, the sway bar beneath screeching as he tears it from the socket and launching it at Rumlow, who ducks and makes it-just barely. It bounces off a light post, bending it like a toothpick, and the light above fizzles out.

 

“NOOOOOOO! Cap! Come ON!” Rumlow has sunk to his knees on the pavement, gloved hands gripping the spikes on top of his head. It doesn’t surprise Steve that this is what it takes to ruin him—the destruction of some overpriced tonka toy.

 

“Dad, STOP!”

 

Steve does a double-take as he wrenches the trunk off its hinges and folds it like a dirty napkin in his massive arms, biceps rippling, back muscles ebbing underneath a too-tight tee shirt. Boomer launches himself at his Dad, wrapping both arms around his raised bicep and climbing him like a monkey would a tree. His feet kick in mid-air, grasping for leverage that isn’t there. “Bailey, I told you to wait in the car.”

 

“I don’t give a shit! You made your point, okay?” Tears—genuine tears—glitter in his son’s eyes and his face is contorted like this assault is hurting him, too. Steve feels the slightest pang of guilt set in as he releases the rumpled piece of metal—it falls to the ground with a “CLANG”.

 

“Hey! What’s going on out here!?” A lanky kid in a crisp black uniform trots up suddenly, flashlight in hand. Wincing through the blinding light, Steve can make out a little white badge that says “campus security”. The kid stops about two yards off, realization flooding his face as he meets Steve’s eyes. He staggers back slightly. “Oh, uh. S-sorry, sir. I didn’t realize it was you.” He nods methodically, turning on one heel. “You have a nice night.”

 

Steve nods back, little puffs of cool night air leaving his parted lips.

 

Boomer’s feet hit the pavement with a grunt as he releases Steve’s arm. He slides a tentative glare at Rumlow before tucking his hand inside the balled fist of his Father’s, grasping the sturdy, newly-scuffed fingers and squeezing once. “C’mon, Dad. Can we just go home?” Steve feels a little tug on his arm, the kind he remembers from what seems so long ago now. He recalls feeling that tug and half-expects to look into the big blue eyes of a blonde-haired little boy, his face dotted with freckles. Steve glances down at his son and he cannot remember a time when Boomer looked so completely exhausted.

 

He hefts the shield onto his arm and turns to stare down at a whimpering, kneeling Rumlow, absentmindedly kicking a tire-rim out of his path. Words at this point would be a waste of his time and energy. What a pathetic, sad little creature. Boomer’s hand slips from Steve’s grasp and he walks slightly ahead of him towards the Jeep without looking back.

 

The ride back to the apartment is silent and goes by fairly quickly, with Boomer staring out the window, his face turned away, any expression hidden from Steve’s view. Bucky has dinner going—some kind of chicken casserole judging from the smell coming from the oven. A colorful salad sits in a bowl on the counter, veggies freshly cut and piled high, ready to be tossed. “Help your Daddy with the table,” Steve murmurs as he hangs his jacket up on the coat rack. Any other day, Bailey would give him some snide remark—‘why, Dad? Because I’m an omega and the kitchen is where I belong?’—but not today, and Steve is grateful for the reprieve. Bucky glances up, giving Steve a concerned look and a quirk of his head as he makes his way past the kitchen and into the bathroom.

 

He runs the water as hot as he can stand it, as if it could help wash away the feeling of disgust. He scrubs the soap into his hands, watching the blood seep from the fresh cuts and turn the suds that swirl into the drain pink. In truth, he is more disgusted with himself than with anyone else. It seems he is always the last to catch on, the last to know when shit’s going down. He cannot fault anybody but himself for that. Maybe if he had known sooner, maybe if he had seen something, noticed something— _anything…_ but what?  His mind goes back to the day, five years prior, tearing a sobbing blonde-haired boy out of Rumlow’s grasp ( _See my fic Bailey “Boomer” Barnes_ ) and dealing with the aftermath of his first heat. They grow up so goddamn soon.

 

He slides open the glass cabinet and rummages for the sterile gauze. His wide knuckles sweep against a yellow medicine bottle and it topples down into the sink. “Dammit…” Steve grasps it, his eyes flashing and his heart freezing in his chest as he reads the label.

 

* * * * *

 

Bucky monitors Steve’s face, the sunken in lines under his eyes indicating exhaustion more than age. It doesn’t take a genius to figure what’s happened—his son’s sheepish, distant gaze paired with Steve’s freshly mended knuckles and stern-set brow as he shovels the food into his mouth tells him all he needs to know.

“S’cuse me,”  Boomer murmurs under his breath, shoving his chair back. The chicken is still untouched on his plate, the half-hearted attempt to finish his salad having to make due for now. Bucky doesn’t bother questioning as Boomer makes his way silently to his room. The door closes with barely a sound.

Bucky levels his eyes with Steve’s, sliding his flesh hand across the table to offer him a gentle squeeze. “You wanna talk about it?”

Steve shrugs as he chews mechanically on his latest bite. “What’s there to say? “

Bucky settles back against the chair, taking a long swing of coke while he contemplates what to say next. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and gives his husband a sideways glance.“Is Rumlow still breathing?”

Steve snorts, a cold sneer crawling across his face. “He’s lucky to be.”

“Steve—“

“You wanna tell me about the pills in the cabinet? “ Steve’s ocean-blue eyes slam up directly into Bucky’s. 

His throat runs completely dry, even as he pauses to take another gulp of soda before responding. “It’s not like I was hiding them. “

“You sure as hell weren’t saying anything about them, either.” Steve leans forward, a pained tinge warping the fine features of his face. “I though you...I thought you said you were infertile. After Bailey. After…after the miscarriages.”

 

Bucky stiffens, his back going rigid against the dining room chair. He chews on those words, dissolving the bitter aftertaste and watching a bead of moisture drip down his glass. “I was.”

 

“You _were?”_ Steve sets his jaw with a cold huff. “Jesus Christ, Buck. Is there anything else I’ve been missing? Any other little surprises I should know about? Or does Rumlow boning our son and you popping the morning-after pill like skittles pretty much sum it up?”

 

“Steve…” Bucky’s eyelids flutter, the fight having been all but drained out of him in week’s events. He shoves his resentment down deep and choses love over any of the lesser emotions he might be inclined to indulge, shaking his head softly. “No, Stevie. That’s about it.”

 

“Good.” Steve slams his fork down, shoving away from the table and stalking off. Seconds later, the Master bedroom door slams shut.

 

Bucky blows out a ragged sigh.

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer is just finishing up his morning routine when the other students start pouring in. A ruckus of gleeful laughter erupts in the row of lockers behind him, hands slapping together in high-five fashion among congratulatory praise. As he expects, Leo rounds the corner, looking patched up and nearly as good as new, save for a cut beneath his eye and a bandage around his wrist. Even the bruises that discolored the many tattoos along his arms and legs are now almost completely dissipated. “Glad to have you back, dude.” Chancey, one of Leo’s entourage of fellow jock-heads, slaps him on the back and pulls him in for a one-armed hug. Yet another ‘bro’ swings his arm around his shoulders as Leo flashes them all a triumphant, toothy grin. The champion returns home. Boomer doesn’t even both with an eye-roll; just shoves his shit in the bottom of his locker and slips away quietly, rounding the vacant row of lockers to bypass the welcoming committee.

 

“Ooooh, trouble in paradise?” Katie swings her arm over Boomer’s shoulders, and it’s all he can do to keep from shoving her away. He doesn’t particularly want the attention of any alpha right now. He wants to focus on Class and practicing for the upcoming finals, and staying the fuck away from anyone who is, was, or might be interested in boning him. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re not over there humping lover-boy’s leg like the rest of the idiots.”

 

“Back off, Kitty.” He gives her arm a half-hearted push and she lets it fall, staring at his back as she watches him leave.

 

“Dude, what crawled up _your_ ass?”

 

Boomer is the first in line to report for Roll Call, his usual black Shield-Issue tank top traded for his Daddy’s oversized Avenger’s sweatshirt. He stands with his back rigid, hands clasped behind in perfect form, feet pointed forward, an expressionless look on his face that borders on bitter. He pretends not to notice as Leo trots up, moments later, toeing the line and standing with his bicep hovering centimeters away from Boomer’s shoulder.

 

“All better,” he offers, a hint of timidity in the usual edginess of his voice.

 

“Good for you,” Boomer murmurs, staring straight forward, his expression unchanged.

 

“Yeah. Uhm, thank goodness for Shield technology. Still hurts like hell, but they saved me from having to spend about six months in a partial-body cast and suck my meals out of a straw.”

 

Boomer nods to the instructor as the class continues to line up and he marks off attendance on his clipboard. When he hovers away, Leo bends his head down into Boomer’s ear, lowering his voice several notches. “Hey, look…about what I said earlier. I was being…I’m an ass. Okay?”

 

Boomer purses his lips together, shrugging sharply as the instructor doubles back around. “ s’Fine.”

 

The instructor twirls his pen in the air, barking “Fifteen laps. Let’s go.” A sharp tweet of his whistle and Boomer bolts forward, easily losing the rest of the class—including a certain black-haired annoyance—in his tracks. His legs are long, lean and powerful for his compact size, and it’s almost as if he pushes the floor up with every stride, fists clenched, teeth bared, eyes full with determination and focus. He rounds the class in just under a minute (according to the small black watch his Dad bought him for Christmas), and hesitates when he comes back around to Leo. Leo’s quick to notice, purposefully slowing his pace until Boomer trails him, going shoulder-to-shoulder with him and matching his speed as they bolt along the gymnasium floor. “Look, I really like you—“

 

With a bitter laugh, Boomer flies past again, legs burning as he struggles to keep Leo at bay. It works until once again he realizes he’s coming up on the second time lapping his classmates, and slows it down to keep Leo half a ring away from him. Leo makes it impossible to keep it up without the instructor calling him out on it though, so Boomer goes at his pace and allows Leo to catch up once more, the entire time keeping his head buried near his chest and his eyes leveled straight ahead.

 

“Come on, man, will you listen to me? I’m trying to say…I’m trying to tell you I was an ass, and I’m sorry.”

 

“I told you,” Boomer huffs out as they run alongside each other, “Forget it!”

 

Leo shakes his head, his long legs pumping away, easily keeping stride with the saucy redhead. Boomer flashes him a glare and Leo can’t help but snicker. “Look, I know you hate me right now, but the least you could do is let me make it up to you.”

 

“Little late for that,” Boomer murmurs. He reaches his hand out, snagging a metal chair at the sideline and dumping it in front of Leo, who easily springs over the distraction. The next-nearest classmate, however, is not nearly as lucky and topples over the obstacle to pummel head-first into the bleachers.

 

“Fergis!,” The instructor bellows, too far away to have seen the cause of the calamity. “Get your head out of your ass! This is Shield, not the fucking NYPD!”

 

“Boomer!” Leo grasps his hand and Boomer wrenches it back with a cold glare. “Come on! One drink, that’s all I’m asking.” When Boomer makes no signs of slowing down or accepting the offer, he adds, “As friends. Because I’d rather be your friend than nothing at all.”

 

Boomer’s pace slows to a jog, his breath hitching as he pulls to the side and Leo follows, a winded look of hopeful desperation on his face. Boomer stares intently into his eyes, reading him with a keen eye. “You’re buying.”

 

“Of course! I’ll pick you up at ten o clock?”

 

“Ten-thirty,” Boomer corrects him. “And I’ll meet you there. Just friends, remember?”

 

“Yeah. Just friends.” Leo nods and his mouth curves into a relieved (if exasperated) smile. He matches Boomer’s pace as the smaller redhead picks up speed. They easily slip back into the lead positions, with Boomer pulling off first by a mere half-second.

 

* * * * *

 

“I’m going to go hang out with Leo tonight.”

 

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at his son, who actually bothered to stop by the Avenger’s Tower in person to announce his actual plans for the evening. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to bog his son down by asking too many questions, relieved that that least he and Steve will know who Boomer is going with and that he isn’t completely tuned out to the idea of being contacted if they get worried. “You got an extra jacket? It’s going to be cold tonight.”

 

“I’ll be fine, Daddy.” Boomer says with a soft smile. “Hey.” He drags his arms across Bucky’s neck, squeezing tightly for a moment before pulling away and slipping out the door. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too,” Bucky nearly forgets to reply, pleasantly stunned as he is, waving as his son disappears out of sight.

 

Boomer gathers his keys in his pocket, feeling the familiar jingle and smiling a little at the thought that tonight, maybe, he can just actually hang out and be “one of the guys”. The parking garage is damp as yet another New York rain patters down over the structure and into the gutters below. He wonders for a moment if Leo will be driving his motorcycle in this weather.

 

It doesn’t occur to him that there is a black van slowing to a crawl behind him until he can smell the engine emissions and hear the suction-sound of wet tires on the pavement. They must be trying to get by. He veers right, giving the van wide berth and nods to the shadow in the driver’s side as it pulls around.

 

The side door slides open with a hiss and he turns just in time to see two masked men bolt out, and by that time it’s too late to run. He struggles in their vice-like grasps, throwing his body one way and then the other, folding his legs underneath himself to kick at their legs hard enough to blow their knees out. His sneakers only encounter thick rubber pads, however, rendering his feet useless. He tries to suck in a deep breath, gathering enough air to scream, but his mouth is covered with a thick leather glove as something sharp digs into the side of his neck.

 

His elbows are free, however, and he gets in a sold jab to the ribs, making one of the figures falter and reveling in the small victory of the sound of cracking ribs.

 

Victory is short-lived, however, as his limbs go fuzzy and his head suddenly feels like an anvil sitting on his shoulders. He is dragged in through the side of the van as the assailant still clutching his side slams the door shut and the van picks up speed, tires squealing as they tear off through the complex.

 

The rooftop is a dull gray, as if it has been spray painted a dozen times. It is all he can focus on as the world around him goes completely black.

 

 

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/BoomLeo_zpsisofi3t5.jpg.html)


	8. Uber Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your omega body was designed with the Alpha cock in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a heartbreaking chapter, but there are a few things I want to promise:  
> 1\. Boomer escapes!  
> 2\. There is a lot of unwanted insertion. Lots. And full-belly kink. So skip past the first section if you are uncomfortable with it (and if you really want to miss all the good stuff, LOL)

He’s staring into a pond that is somehow suspended on the ceiling above him. It looks a lot like the big pond in Central Park where his dads used to take him to throw pennies in and make a wish. Multi-colored koi flit about in the dark water as little rain drops play out like piano keys, reverberating on the glass-like surface. The sun is rising fast—the reflection of it in the water growing until it blocks out everything else. The fish scatter underneath the lily pads and dissolve into a blazing blanket devoid of color. He winces, feeling his tears collect to shield him from the blinding light. He squeezes his eyes tight, a clear tear rolling down his cheek. When he opens them again, the light is still there; a round flickering cylinder suspended about his head, washing him in the haze. 

 

“Mh…” He wiggles his extremities but finds them too heavy yet to lift. The soft mechanical beeping of monitors enters his consciousness and he comes-to enough to assess his surroundings. “What..?” He moans uneasily, shifting his weight. He is lying prone, his back flat against a hard surface that feels like it is covered with a basic mat, something that keeps his elbows from hitting cold sheet-metal. The snap of a latex glove averts his attention and his mind reels to accept the information coming in from his vision. A man with tight skin stretched over an aging face fastens a second glove, wiggling his fingers in until they are devoid of all wrinkles.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes. My name is Doctor Bicen. I have no doubt you have many questions but I want to assure you, you are in a safe place.” A plastic smile stretches over his lips that are just a little too pink to be natural. If the smile is meant to be reassuring, it has the exact opposite effect. His blank eyes bore holes into Boomer’s, and he shrinks back into himself as far as he can get, flattening his shoulder blades to the thin mat beneath him. 

 

“Where am I?”

 

Incredulously, the doctor’s eyelashes bat against his high cheekbones and his plaster smile fades a little. “As I explained, you are in a safe place. There is no need to fear.”

 

Boomer shivers as a cold draft enters the room and crawls across his bared skin. He cranes his neck with eyes snapped wide open, jerking suddenly against the restraints as he stares down at his half-naked form. “Wh—what the fuck is this?” He is nude except for a pair of plain white briefs that are most definitely not his own, which means someone had taken the liberty of undressing him completely when he was unconscious. As he tosses his head, the artificial scent of strawberries flies into his nostrils, his fluffy, freshly cleaned hair falling into his eyes.

 

The man in the lab coat seems unconcerned, tipping a watch-like gadget towards his face and murmuring, “Subject Three-Five-Zero-K seems startled upon awakening and does not respond to verbal reassurance.” He struts closer to the table, landing a sickeningly familiar hand on Boomer’s upper thigh, and suddenly he is grateful for the gloves. Something tells him he doesn’t want this man touching him *at all* but the gloves provide some type of barrier and it’s the only thing that stops Boomer from throwing up in his mouth. “It is not advisable to struggle against the restraints,” he offers coolly. “You will only end up hurting yourself.”

 

Boomer balls up a wad of what little spit he can manufacture and hurls it at the man. He shields himself quickly with his clipboard and it spatters down the back. He narrows a less-than-enthused glare down at his captive, wiping it off and replacing his dirtied glove. “ _Go fuck yourself,”_ Boomer hisses through clenched teeth.

 

The scientist quirks an eyebrow at the upstart before his expression slides back into one of mild amusement. He sits down on a rolling stool and turns his attention to a monitor to Boomer’s right, the screen of which he cannot see from his viewpoint. “Hmm….vitals are stable, heart rate is rapid but steady, all in all you seem like a normal, all-american omega.” His dark green eyes shift up to meet Boomer’s over the screen. “But you and I know better, don’t we Mr. Barnes?”

 

Boomer shifts uncomfortably, knocking the restraints against the metal loops that are apparently bolted to the makeshift cot, careful not to let the terror he feels rising in his chest take over. He balls his fists, slamming them down and jerking the thick leather loops first left, then right, testing their strength against his own.

 

“Mr. Barnes, I will ask that you please cease the racket. You will not be getting out of your own volition, and panic looks very unattractive on you.”

 

Boomer roars in agony; the restraints are holding fast and the more furiously he throws himself against them, the more fear-stricken his fight gets. He rocks from side-to-side like a caged ape, slamming his compact weight against the rails of the gurney that refuses to move. Damn thing must be bolted to the floor. Boomer could even knock his Dad down with the kind of energy he is putting into each throw.

 

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, the Doctor reaches a gloved hand over the white underwear, his fingers clamping down on Boomer’s flaccid length and giving a half twist.

 

Boomer’s hips jam down and his knees curl up as far as the ankle-restraints will allow, letting out an undignified squeal as the pain shoots through him.

 

The man’s eyebrow ascends into his bangs. “Do I have your attention now, Mr. Barnes?”

 

Boomer jams his eyes shut, throwing his head to the side as he waits for the immense pressure to let up, his chest heaving as he pants.

 

“Excellent. Now, Mr. Barnes. Or Bailey, is it? Bailey…” The hand that isn’t wrenching his outer organs in two sweeps, feather-light, down Boomer’s cheekbone. “Such an appropriately delicate name.”

 

“Go to hell.”

 

The pain and pressure is back, this time each fingernail working its way into the soft mound of his testicles and twisting just-so. Boomer stifles a bitten-off cry, his forearms shaking as they go taut, the metal fasteners clanging as they snap forward off the sides of the cot.

 

“You will find I have a storehouse of patience, Bailey. You are not the first omega I have trained. God knows you won’t be the last. It is completely your decision how we proceed; are you going to continue to act like a child and require me to inflict pain in exchange for your submission or would you like to comply so that I can release you and get on with my work?”

 

The word “work” sends a shiver through him. His daddy had told him only vaguely of his time in Hydra and how he was conditioned to become the Winter Soldier. The stories always captivated Boomer, even as his daddy retold them over the years, each time the story getting more in depth and detailed than the next. Boomer supposes part of that was due to his age and the fact that Bucky probably figured he could handle more of the specifics of what conditioning and brainwashing was like. Boomer wonders if it was anything like this. Hydra is where his Daddy met Rumlow. And what about Rumlow? Had he been part of the conditioning, too? Had they taken Bucky’s omega status into account and paired them together to further control their Asset? He lets out a shaky breath as a tear squeezes out and slips down his cheek—hates himself for letting it go—but wills himself to relax, letting his extremities slip back to the rigid cot, his spine conforming to the slick padding below.  The doctor’s grip releases, just as promised, and he bites down on his bottom lip to control the urge to pull away.

 

A satisfactory grin crosses the man’s face. “There. Now doesn’t that feel better?” He watches the tinge of rebellion flare up in Boomer’s eyes as he wrenches his head away, and chuckles to himself. “You are fighting against your natural omega instincts. Eventually, even the strongest will succumbs. It is nothing to be ashamed of—it’s actually quite beautiful—your body responding properly to the Alpha touch. Now, enough talk. Let’s begin your first formal training.” Aleric spins in the chair and plucks a vial from a selection on a clear plastic shelf. As he readies a needle, he explains, “Your dulled scent indicates that you recently finished a heat cycle. My medical experience leads me to believe that this was a first for you in the last few years, probably due to some artificial Heat Supressant.” He clicks his tongue disappointedly and pokes the needle in, drawing out a clear fluid. Boomer shivers but cannot manage to draw his eyes away as he watches the vial fill. “In order to properly measure your output, we will need to induce a second heat.”

 

Boomer completely skims over the word “output”—whatever the doctor means, he knows he isn’t going to like it—but the term “second heat” paralyzes him right to the core. What will that do to his body? His heats are already awful as it is—a second one would be unbearable.

 

“Now, this is an artificial solution of course, but it will render the necessary responses and make you more docile to the treatment. In short, Bailey, it is a very very powerful drug.”

 

“Why...?” Boomer chokes out, bringing one hand up to the end of the restraints. It is all he can do, and though the doctor’s eyes flicker warningly, he doesn’t do anything to stop him.

 

The man doesn’t answer, instead turning back and gently lifting the fold of thin fabric where the underwear runs along his right testicle and pushing the needle in. Boomer bites down a whimper, balling both fists but knowing better than to make a move he would most certainly regret with the needle edging further in to the sensitive area. Aleric pushes the stopper with his thumb, administering the fluid until the vial is drained dry. He lets out a satisfied grunt as he slides the needle out and throws it in the metal waste bin. It makes a “CLANG” as it hits the bottom.

 

Boomer doesn’t have time to wonder how long it will take for the drug to start working before a warm tingle spreads through his entire body and his vision slightly blurs. His mouth suddenly parched, he smacks his lips together as a jolt of pure _want/need_ fills his belly. He strains against the chains, all fours going rigid once more, his head flying backwards against the cot. He drags air in through his gaping mouth but no matter how he tries, he can’t seem to get enough into his lungs. The familiar warmth stirs in his groin area, spreading like wildfire throughout his lower half and a cry he can’t stop flies out of his throat, muscles spasming as he rides the merciless wave.

 

“Therrre,” the doctor purrs, petting his face with the back of his hand, his mouth dropping open as he watches the struggling omega before him. “Aren’t you just lovely?”

 

Boomer’s eyes rolls up into the back of his head. He wants—he needs—something in him, and NOW. He has never felt such urgency. His hips rise weakly off the cot, legs contorted and shaking as they spread willingly. He has already soaked through the tight pair of underwear—his hole clenching tight, the natural slick coating between his cheeks and surface beneath them.

 

Aleric lets out a chuckle as he leans down, readying a long tube and attaching it to a large vial at the end. He secures it to the table with plastic clamps and brings out a clear, hollow, penis-shaped object. He turns it in the light for Boomer to inspect. Boomer whimpers. “Shh, I know, darling. I know. It is not the real thing, but before we can progress I must first properly record your vitals. This dildo will allow me to milk your natural fluids and measure them. Then we will proceed to filling your stomach with artificial seed to measure your intake capability. I imagine most of this is flying over your heat-addled little omega mind, isn’t it?” Boomer hates himself for it, but when the doctor’s fingers return to his flushed cheek, he turns inward to the touch, the sensation of the wide nails dragging briskly against his overheated skin mixed with his overwhelmingly authoritative Alpha stench making his stomach do backflips.

 

He doesn’t notice the doctor cutting away the thin white material and discarding it. He can’t make out what the doctor is actually saying as he gently coos in his ear. He can only focus on the fact that his body is on fire and the only possible way to quench the flame is hovering over him. He jolts forward as the cold tip of the dildo presses against his entrance, letting out a weak whine and tossing his head to the side.

 

“Let your body do what it was meant for,” the doctor offers with a methodical push. The bulbous tip of the dildo juts against his aching hole, and Boomer clenches down in a last-ditch effort to deny it access. The doctor only pushes further in until the cool silicone breaches the tight ring of muscle with a little “pop” and Boomer gasps as his walls reach for it, pulling the length in despite the immense pressure, opening him wide to receive the hollowed-out cock. “There, there. Good boy. Such a sweet thing. Doesn’t it feel good to submit? You were built for this, my little prince. Your omega body was designed with the Alpha cock in mind.”

 

Boomer wants to throw up—his mind batters against the driving urges of his body, grinding his teeth together and gaining control for a brief second, slamming his hips to the metal gurney in an effort to drive the intrusion out. A sting of pure, unadulterated pain soars up his spine as the cock jabs unnaturally inward, Aleric holding it there and pushing further in, earning a sob from Boomer as a tear slips down his cheek.

 

“What did we talk about not minutes ago, Mr. Barnes?” The doctor hovers over him, one hand flattened to his chest and holding him there as he struggles for air. “Struggling is not only anti-therapeutic, it will result in unneeded pain and suffering. If only you would relax and take the dildo naturally, as you were bred to do, there would be no need for these corrective measures.” The doctor doesn’t wait for Boomer to comply this time. He reaches over and flips a switch, a mechanical noise buzzes as it turns on, followed by the dull sucking noise.

 

The dildo begins to move involuntarily inside of Boomer, vacuuming out the clear fluid as fast as his body can produce it. His entrance flutters at the loss of moisture, with little barrier from the silicone cock as it pulsates inside of him.

 

“I don’t usually train omegas over 16,” the doctor continues, watching the clear tube that extends from between Boomer’s legs as it fills with slick. “But for you, I made an exception. I have no doubt your body has a plethora of information stored inside it, being that both your parents are recipients of the purest strain of the Serum. So even though you have already been mated—“

 

Boomer’s eyes flash and he cranes his head toward the scientist, even in the throngs of the searing pain.

 

“—Oh you thought I didn’t know? My dear, your body is marked from the first time you mate. You have had…” He sniffs at the air thoughtfully, “…one mate. An alpha with a very defined sense of authority. He has bred you multiple times, with one successful pregnancy.” His eyes lower knowingly as he adds,  “which was terminated early on.”

 

A pained look of horrified realization washes over Boomer’s face.

 

The doctor’s fake smile returns, sliding over his surreal features. “No sense dwelling on the past, little one. Besides, that’s something that will be remedied shortly.” He glances over at the rapidly-filling vial, his eyebrows quirking upward in pleasant surprise. “A thousand CC’s in just this short time.” He flashes Boomer a cold smile as he turns the machine off. “That has to be some kind of a record.”

 

He lets out a relieved whimper as the suction stops and Aleric’s hand descends between his legs, expecting to feel the release of pressure as the dildo slides outward. The uncomfortably dry stretch remains, however, as Alaric detaches the tube and slides another one in its place, securing it to the end of the plastic cock that impales him. Boomer’s eyes flit over to the grinning doctor and his face falls.

 

“Did you not recall? I must take the second measurement.” Alaric hefts a large bag of equally clear fluid, attaching it to a metal bar directly over Boomer’s head, securing it with massive clips as the weight sags against the bar. He clamps the end of the new tube to a nozzle that pokes out of the bottom of the bag and squeezes.

 

“C’mon, stop…fuck!...” Boomer makes out through quiet, dry sobs as the fluid makes its journey down the tube and disappears between his legs. “Mmh…” The first bit of it spills from the tip of the cock, filling his hole with a constant stream. It rims the head of the device, easing its insertion as the doctor checks the end to ensure it is still fully seated inside of him. Boomer twitches as the pressure expands, the strange sensation of the backwards stream forcing his tract open as he wriggles uncomfortably against the sensation.

 

“We have to ensure you can sustain sufficient capacity of an Alpha’s seed inside you before we can progress to the next level of tests. The stretch may be uncomfortable at first, perhaps even painful, but remember, Bailey; your body was created with the ability to take in as much seed as an Alpha can produce in one mating, which in most cases can be equal to a half gallon or more. This harmless gel will provide the same kind of full feeling while allowing us to measure your intake.”

 

The pain of his belly, which swells as every ebb, pushes Boomer past the numbing neediness of the induced heat and into righteous rage. He jerks his head off the table, his eyes burning into the doctor’s as he snaps the chains of the leather bindings with a “CRACK”. “If you know who my parents are…then you know you don’t have long to live.”

 

Expressionless, Alaric grabs the bag and squeezes down, the fluid packing into Boomer’s stomach, the round fullness beneath his navel expanding. His cries tear out of his chest and reverberate against the metal walls and glass windows of the room, limbs straining against the sudden influx, overflowing the silicone cock and dribbling out onto the table. “See, Mr. Barnes, your rebellious behavior only results in unwanted consequences.” He trails his long fingers over the bulge in Boomer’s belly, splaying his hand wide and pressing inward ever so slightly, earning a choked-off sob from the redhead. “If only you would obey the natural laws set in place by your own genetic makeup, you would find how truly _liberating_ submission is.”

 

Another wad of spit lands squarely on his jaw, this time, and Alaric eyes him icily as he swipes it off. “Fuck you. You hear me, you piece of alpha TRASH?! Fuck you!”

 

The doctor slides away, settling back against the rolling chair as a grin creeps across his face. He raises the watch-like device to his lips and speaks into it as if recording some mathematic equation. “Five-thousand CCs of solution administered in a span of 200 seconds. Subject Thee-five-zero-K continually resists compliance despite heat-inducing protocol. Findings indicate that a stringent course of action is required. Forced-breeding may produce desired submission.”

 

Boomer’s head slumps against the stiff mat as Aleric slides the dildo out sharply. Boomer is too weakened to do much more than wince at the pain as the clear fluid rolls out of his entrance and onto the table, pooling into a puddle on the floor below.

 

* * * * *

 

“Gotta say, man. This is a new low, even for you.”

 

Rumlow slides a sideways glance at Leo as he trots up the Academy steps, jamming his car keys into his pocket. He glances back at the vehicle he drove in with—a black Tahoe, on rental from the insurance company—and shoots Leo a dirty glare. “The fuck, kid? Got a problem with Chevys?”

 

Leo looks incredulous. “Not the car, moron—Boomer.”

 

Rumlow stops at the front doors, a mixed look of worry/concern/jealousy crossing his face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

Leo cocks a hip, and it’s all he can do to keep his balled fists at his side. “Don’t play that card with me, asshole. You know exactly what I’m talking about. What, your dick so tiny you can’t even let Boomer hang out with me without worrying that I’m going to knot him?”

 

Rumlow huffs, hefting the door open and just about slamming it closed on Leo’s face. Leo topples in after, angling a wide shoulder through the door and balling the back of Rumlow’s jacket into a fist. Rumlow easily counters, slicing his hand through the air and flinging Leo’s arm off to the side. “You want me to break it again, kid? Keep this shit up!”

 

“I want an answer. I deserve at least that.” A small crowd of onlookers has gathered silently in the distance to watch/not watch the battle that’s about to go down.  “Boomer is my friend, okay? And you can’t just—“

 

Rumlow’s arms fly out from his sides as he flashes him an exasperated glare. “Kid, Boomer and I ain’t a pair no more, okay? We boned for like two days and he hasn’t wanted to talk to me since.”

 

“Wait.” Leo looks as if he’s consulting the calendar in his brain, rummaging through the last twenty-four hours in his mind and coming up blank. “So, you mean you didn’t talk to him last night?”

 

“No, you idiot. The hell are you smoking?” Rumlow sloughs the tactical bag across his shoulder and turns away, heading up the stairs to the teacher’s lounge. He stops mid-way up, glancing back at Leo, his features softening. “You mean, you don’t know where…he’s not in the locker room?”

 

“Dunno,” Leo shrugs, suddenly lost in his own thoughts. “Kitty, you see Boomer?”

 

Katie shakes her head from where she kneels on the mat, in the midst of tying her shoe. “Uhm, not yet, no.”

 

Rumlow is already phone-in-hand, dialing Bucky’s number. “Hey, yeah it’s me. Where’s Boomer?” A pause. “No, Leo hasn’t seen him either.”

 

“He was supposed to hang out with me last night,” Leo offers, his voice growing slightly panicky.

 

Rumlow relays the message across the phone and his eyes widen a little moments later; whatever Bucky’s response, it’s not good. “Yeah. Avenger’s Tower in fifteen minutes. You got it.” Rumlow trots back down the steps, jamming open the door without another word.

 

Leo launches himself down the steps after him, his long legs easily closing the gap between them. “Hey, what is it? What’s going on? Is—Is Boomer missing?”

 

Rumlow stares straight ahead as he unlocks the door and it groans open. “Get your ass in, if you’re coming. I’ll explain on the way.”

 

Leo rounds the other side of the vehicle and jumps in just as Rumlow hits the gas. With the squawk of tires and the roar of the engine, they peel out of the parking lot.

 

* * * * *

 

Frank pulls up to Avengers tower, eyeing it will cool disdain as Matt kicks the door of the van open and slides out, sniffing the air around him and tilting his head, ‘surveying’ the scene, his way. “Big, isn’t it?,” he muses.

 

Frank shrugs. “Bigger than anything in Hell’s Kitchen, anyway.” Matt is already a few steps into the walk when Frank slides back and slams his broad shoulders into the van with a groan. “C’mon Red, we got enough problems in the Kitchen. We _have_ to do this?”

 

“You’re being a big baby,” Matt chides, grasping his boyfriend’s hand and tugging him along as he extends his cane out and navigates the lot.

 

“Good morning, sir…” The receptionist’s voice fades off as her eyes scale Frank’s broad chest that’s barely hidden under his tight black tee-shirt to his deep-set brown eyes and the knotted nose between them. Her face glazes into a dreamy-eyed look, her shoulders slumping forward as if being hypnotized by the man before her. His scent is powerful, authoritative and unmistakable— _uber-alpha._ “Hi. Howwww…..How can I assist you?”

 

Matt pinches Frank’s elbow when he doesn’t respond. Reluctantly, he grumbles, “Fury.”

 

“Of course,” she murmurs breathlessly. “Any…Anything for you.” She continues to stare up at him whilst absentmindedly punching the numbers into the phone beside her.

 

Matt proudly cocks his head Frank’s way, nudging him gently. “Gee, Mr. Castle. I can’t take you anywhere.”

 

Frank rolls his eyes and murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.”

 

The receptionist shimmies her way up the steps, adding what Frank can see is an extra little wiggle to her back-end. Christ, is being left alone with a fresh pot of coffee and his favorite AK too much to ask some days? With a gentle shove between his shoulder blades, he follows suit.

 

An argument is already underway as the elevator ascends and they approach the heavy doors. A voice bellows as the muffled conversation ensues, and as the receptionist pushes a button and the doors slide open, the shouting becomes crystal-clear.

 

“I don’t give a shit what your excuse is! He is out there, somewhere, and we’ve got to find him! We’ve got bigger things to worry about than—“ The scene is visceral; the rigid muscles of Steve’s turned back as he faces the Director, fists balled to either side of him, neck red and veins popping. He turns toward the sound of the opening door, meeting Frank’s gaze, his eyes a vivid, sharp blue.

 

“Interrupting something?”

 

Fury slides off his place on the desk, brushing past Steve to extend a hand to Frank. “Mr. Castle. I’m so glad you could come.”

 

Frank’s hand remains at his side and Fury slides over to Matt, touching his hand gently. Matt smiles in return and takes it in a firm grasp with a polite smile. “Happy to be here. Sorry to interrupt your uh…conversation.”

 

Fury shakes his head even as Steve shoots him a glare. “It’s no problem. In fact, though it’s not what I asked you here for, perhaps you’d consider helping us find our wayward Recruit.”

 

“Can I ask what happened?”

 

Steve crosses his arms in front of his chest as he turns, letting out a reluctant sigh and sliding his gaze over to the auburn-haired lawyer. “It’s my son Bailey. He was supposed to be out with a friend last night but never showed.” He runs a hand through his hair, his expression more one of irritation than of concern. “It’s starting to become a pattern.”

 

Matt closes the distance between himself and the blond alpha, even though it earns him a low growl from Frank. He flashes a slight smile and extends his hand. “Matt Murdock. You must be Steve Rogers.”

 

Steve’s eyelashes flutter in surprise as he shakes it, a slightly bewildered grin crossing his face. “You know who I am?”

 

Matt shrugs. “I can’t say we’ve met formally, but very few people can mistake the signature voice of Captain America.”

 

Steve blushes a little, releasing his hand and scrubbing the back of his neck when Frank’s low growl gets a little louder and he approaches behind his mate. “He insisted on coming.”

 

Steve nods dutifully at Frank. This is not the first time they have met; far from it. In the years past they have ran into each other in several occasions, The Punisher being not so much a willing participant as a reluctant partner whether when providing backup or when their missions have crossed paths.

 

Matt smiles knowingly and tilts his head up at Steve. “Your husband is here.”

 

Moments later the door wizzes open again and Bucky strides in, marching directly up to Fury, metal fist pulled back. “Bucky—Bucky, WHOA!” Steve launches himself at his mate just in time, collecting the vibranium appendage in both mighty biceps and hauling him backwards into his arms.  


“Gonna fuckin’ KILL you—“ Bucky spits, his eyes seething, teeth clenched as he attempts to climb out of Steve’s grasp, lunging his full weight towards Fury, who raises his hands up defensively.

 

“Easy, Barnes, Easy!”

 

“YOU—“ Bucky stops just short of gnawing his way out Steve’s vice-like grip when an unfamiliar hand touches the back of his head gently, petting him in an almost catlike fashion. The act infuriates him as much as it soothes him, the overwhelming scent of _alpha_ numbing his every nerve. He succumbs with a frustrated murmur, blue eyes flashing up into Frank’s guileless stare. His expression softens as he folds himself into Steve’s arms and his feet return to the floor.

 

“Better?” Frank mutters down at him.

 

“What was…what did you do?” Steve’s expression is seething jealousy mixed with fascination as the sated omega grumbles in his grasp. 

 

Matt shrugs, answering for his boyfriend. “It’s a gift he has.”

 

“Frank Castle is what they call an uber-alpha,” Fury explains. He returns to the safety of his desk, the air and the mixture of clashing scents getting too thick for comfort. “He’s genetically superior to a normal alpha. Let’s just say he’s…very persuasive. Be thankful he’s on our side for the most part, boys. Uber-alphas are rare, but they are basically able to get any omega to do whatever they want.”

 

Steve’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

 

Bucky wriggles free and struts towards Fury in a slow, determined manner. “Where is my son?,” he states coolly now that his brain is back in working order.

 

“Mr. Barnes, the only thing I can tell you for certain is that I don’t know. The mission I sent him on was a very simple task. To retrieve Mr. Castle, here—“ Fury nods towards him. “—and bring him back to the Avengers for a mission that requires his particular skill-set. I guess, in his own “Little Barnes” way, he was successful.”

 

“Wait…” Matt holds up a finger as the lightbulb clicks on. “You’re Boomer’s Dads?”

 

“You know Boomer?,” Bucky asks.

 

“Yes.” Matt collects his cane, leaning on it as he extrapolates. “Boomer came in that night we were playing pool and uh…” He grins fondly towards Frank, whose frown deepens. “…let’s just say, your son is very forceful.”

 

Steve shakes his head, eyes pointed down to the floor, and lets out a tired laugh. “That sounds like our Bailey.”

 

The door hisses open once more and the sound has Fury’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Jesus, people, is this Grand Central Station all the sudden?”

 

“Rumlow.” In a move that shocks quite literally everyone (but especially Rumlow) Bucky throws his arms around his neck in a viselike grip, flattening himself against Rumlow’s chest.

 

His eyes flutter closed and he lets out a breathy sigh, taking a deep whiff of Bucky’s hair as it flies into his face and wrapping his arms around him, squeezing a fistful of the wavy brown locks in his gloved fingers. “I gotcha, kid. It’s okay. Shh. ‘Saright. We’ll find him.”

 

It doesn’t take sight to notice the jealousy that practically seethes from Steve. Matt leans across, offering a gentle squeeze and a smile. It seems to bring him back to some semblance of normalcy and he shrugs it off, offering a hand to Leo as he enters the circle.

 

“Holy hell,” the kid murmurs, ducking his face into the crook of his arm. “It reeks in here.”

 

“That’d be him,” Steve offers, pointing his thumb at Frank.

 

Leo looks up—and up and up—at the towering alpha, and lets out a sharp snicker. “I guess so.”

 

“Lemme guess, another uber-alpha side effect?”

 

“Only to unmated alphas,” Frank offers. “Guess they see me as a rival ‘r something.”

 

“Gee,” Leo murmurs, his eyes narrowing. “I wonder why.”

 

“Well, we got backup on the way,” Rumlow offers, keeping Bucky close to his side by swinging an arm across his shoulders. “Then we can work on a strategy to search for Boomer.”

 

Steve intervenes, being the not-so-subtle muscle-bound blond wedge between the two, pulling Bucky to his side and sliding a hand down his spine, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Who are we waiting for?”

 

Rumlow nods to the doorway as it hisses open, and a tall, black-clad Shield agent steps in as he adjusts his leather gloves, offering a dutiful nod to Steve. Rumlow grins. “Glad you could make it, buddy.”

 

He cocks his head Rumlow’s way and tilts his chin down into his chest, his blank blue eyes staring straight forward. “No problem,” Rollins says.

 

* * * * *

 

The spray of water is not warm, but not nearly as cold as it could be. Boomer flattens himself to the flat stone wall, ignoring the sweet pang of desire coming from his lower half. He hates this. This never would have happened if he hadn’t turned out to be a goddamn crybaby omega! The water runs down, and he is grateful that for the moment he’s not choking on his own needy, desperate scent and drowning in slick. It all gets washed down the forgiving, merciful drain. He is going to linger here as long as possible. He looks down at the drain and wonders where it leads, if the direction the water swirls down is any indication of where the nearest body of water is. No, he doesn’t think so. There are no windows in this place, and even if he could escape, he has been fitted with a heavy silver collar that most likely tracks his location. He growls at the thought, tugging hopelessly against the metal ring before letting his hands drop back down. There are no windows to even tell what time of day it is.

 

He can’t focus on how much he misses home; how he would give anything to hear his Dad yelling at him for being late for dinner again, or having to help Daddy change the oil in the Jeep, or to be forced to stay in because it’s movie night. Misses Leo being annoying and pushing a cold can of soda against his back, misses Rumlow—lying in bed at night, safe in the circle and security of his arms, surrounded by his calming, deep scent. He can’t miss those things right now. Doesn’t dare think about them. Tears are a wasted effort, and he’s not some pathetic alpha’s-bitch in need of rescuing. He’s Boomer Fucking Barnes. And here in the cascade, you can’t tell tears from water.

 

The rusty door to the small cell squeaks open and he turns on his heel, instinctively bending a leg to cover himself. His ankles and wrists have been rubbed raw by the bindings, his skin glistening wet as he shivers, hugging himself and backup up as far as he can under the spray.

 

“Come, Mr. Barnes.” It’s the same man, the same white, blemish-free lab coat, the same stretched smile over a marionette-like face. He holds his hand out, palm-up, for Boomer’s.

 

Boomer freezes under the downpour, his glass-blue eyes burning into the doctor’s, hard and unwavering. The doctor lets out a soft huff, his plastic grin quirking up further on his face as he curls his fingers up and places his hand back in his pocket. “I thought as much. I will not ask again.” He slides a small radio out of his pocket and hits the receiver. “Tier, I require your assistance in Block J.”

 

>be right there<

 

If the voice that comes through the radio is any indication, this is not going to be nice or pretty. Boomer sticks to his plan, knowing that whoever it is that breaches that doorway is going to have to get ahold of him first, and this time there are no restraints; just a blank room and a running hose and four concrete walls.

 

Tier is a massive man whose neck is thicker than his head and whose shoulders nearly block all the light coming from the doorway. With a knowing grin, the scientist steps aside and a sick feeling gnaws at Boomer’s gut. He wears a tactical suit much like the ones in Shield, but without the bells and whistles; just a plain pair of black cargo pants and a black tee shirt that shows off his gargantuan biceps. There is nothing natural about this place or any of the inhabitants in it—the bulging blue veins that swirl around the man’s neck and arms disappear underneath his clothes and Boomer shivers as he can only imagine what the rest of him looks like.

 

Despite his intimidating features, his eyes look tired as he sighs and offers his hand out, wiggling his fingers towards him. “Come on, kid.”

 

Boomer spits, this time into the drain, raising his fists head-height and stepping back into fighting form.

 

The man shrugs and steps forward into the cell. “Alright.”

 

Boomer lunges straight ahead, going low and aiming for the man’s legs. They are unmovable, like the trunks of two mighty trees, so he slides between them, nearly making out before the legs close and his sore ankle is squeezed between leather boots. “Aagh!” He kicks up with his free leg and twists away, just in time to run straight into the lab-coated doctor. This, he has been dreaming of for the last few hours. He reels back and knees him square in the groin, the scientist letting out an undignified squeak and clutching himself as Boomer pads off, bare-footed and naked with a colossus following close on his heels.

 

Keeping the hulking man at bay turns out to be the easy part, with lots of carts and gurneys and big heavy electrical items to tear down in his path behind him. He keeps his mind focused ahead even as the bellowing monster behind makes enough noise to make it seems like he’s knocking into each and every one, and it brings a sense of triumph at every cry and groan. Boomer scales a fenced-off area; he is light enough to clear the barricade without too much trouble and veers into the nearest room when he notices a guard ahead of him turning to give chase. Sheild Espionage Manual 77.2, article 3, section 16: survey a room in under a second using visual keys like shadows and cut-aways to discover possible doors or places to hide. Section 17: look for a means of escape first, and a place to hide second.

 

Just like the room he first woke up in, there is no possibility of a quick exit---it is devoid of windows and doors but there is a nice long section of metal cabinets along the wall. He crams himself into the nearest one, thankful for once for his small size, sliding the door shut with his toes as the two guards enter. He looks around among the scarce supplies and grins when his eyes fall on a slender package with something shiny inside. He grins.

 

If there is one thing he’s learned as the son of Captain America, it’s this: where there’s a will…

 

The bigger guard chuckles, leaning down in front of the cabinets where Boomer crouches. “Come on, kid. For as good a fighter as you seem, you’re not very creative.” He slides the door open, the first glint of his eye giving Boomer a perfect target. When the giant lurches up with a scream, he bangs the back of his head against the counter on top, a syringe buried deep in his eye-socket. Before he can recover, the redhead scrambles out, slipping his fingers through the loop of his revolver as he comes to stand in front of the second guard and jerking it out of his holder. It all happens in a matter of nano-seconds; disarming the titan and aiming the trigger at the one behind.

 

“Back down,” Boomer barks, nudging the trigger toward the open doorway. The guard behind him is on his knees, rocking back and forth as he nurses his injured eye.

 

He is no ordinary omega;  he is the son of the Winter Solider and Captain Kick-Ass America. The second guard has more interest in surviving than the first. He raises his hands defensively and backs up into the doorway.

 

“Smart choice. Now, radio it in: you caught and you’re coming back in.”

 

The guard hesitates, his thumb on the receiver.

 

“DO IT!” He jerks forward, nudging the barrel of the gun in the air and the guy complies.

 

“Fifty-eight, do you copy?”

 

>copy<

 

“I…I’ve got the runaway.” His eyes narrow, obviously perturbed that the tiny omega outsmarted him. “We’re headed your way.”  

 

“Good. Now show me the exit.” He follows the stupefied guard out, grabbing a lab coat off the hanger and throwing on over his shoulders as they go.

 

The cool fall air feels amazing, even as it chills the collar around his neck. He shrugs the lab coat on tighter around his shoulders and surveys the scene; he is on a hilltop, and the vantage point is perfect to view the city below, with the Avengers Tower shining in the distance.  He heads for the trees and doesn’t look back, the possibility of being pursued by the strange scientist and his group of freakishly big security officers spurring him on.

 

* * * * *

 

The first building he comes to is a small, secluded gas station on the corner of a dirt road. This is a portion of New York that looks like it had its heyday back in the 70s. The building has three gas pumps—two of which have an “out-of-order” sign over the nozzles. He stuffs the gun deep in the pocket of the lab coat, ignoring the “no shoes no service” sign on the glass door and jerks it open. The overhead bell chimes and a tall, lanky kid hobbles around the counter. He is alpha, judging by his scent, but he’s definitely high-school age and has a thick cast on his leg and leans on two crutches, so Boomer doubts he will be a problem. He hides his nakedness as best as he can with the oversized coat as he approaches. “Hi. Uhm. Can I borrow your phone?”

 

He must look like shit—stringy, wet hair hanging in his eyes, his feet bare, wrists and ankles ringed with thick blue bruises, a freaking collar around his throat, wet and cold and shaking like a chihuahua. The kid’s mouth nearly hits the counter as he eyes him up and down, a confused and slightly horrified expression momentarily freezing his face. “Uh…oh! Yeah. H-here.” He slides an out-of-date phone across to Boomer and Boomer clutches it, murmuring his thanks as his shaking fingers speed over the buttons.

 

“Dad?” The tears he has been fighting back for so long spill down his face as Steve answers the other end. “Dad?! Oh thank God. Uhm. Come…come get me. I don’t know…” He turns back to the bewildered youth and asks, “Where are we?”

 

“The Hole,” the kid answers. “That’s Blake Avenue, out there. This here is Emerald.”

 

Boomer huffs, repeating the information over the line, and hanging up moments later. He timidly cranes his neck to peer outside, confident that at any moment, Dr. Bicen and his weird-ass lackeys are going to come barreling down the road after him. “You mind if I stay inside?”

 

“S-sure. Uhm. Do you want some water, or anything?”

 

Boomer watches through the window intently, edging closer to the wall behind him, where he knows no-one can see. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

 

* * * * *

 

 


	9. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what this is about,” Rollins explains. “He’s not yours anymore, Rumlow, if he ever really was. He’s the property of Highland. Now, if you don’t let him go, this is going to get real bloody real fast. They’re not afraid to shoot through you to get to him. I really don’t want to see that happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Chapter 9! And really getting down to the wire here. This is all leading up to the big finale! Thank you for waiting so patiently...Please leave me feedback and I hope you enjoy this latest chapter!

Hours earlier…

 

“I gotta go, babe.” Rollins offers a quick kiss on Sasha’s forehead, scrubbing the head of the baby in his arms as he heads out the door. He leaves Sasha with his mouth dropped open, the words to the question of where he is going and what he is doing remaining trapped in his throat. Rollins throws his jacket over his shoulder as the door closes behind him and he trots down the steps to the parking garage. His expression falls dark as he slides into his vehicle—it’s on to the next phase in the plan.

 

He didn’t plan on the Punisher or his little redheaded lawyer boyfriend, but that’s of no consequence. His eyes slide over to Steve’s face and he can’t remember the last time the star-spangled golden boy looked so goddamn old. He feels a tinge of guilt creep along his spine and cracks his neck on both sides, effectively pushing it down.

 

Rumlow is the first to acknowledge his presence; not a big surprise. “Glad you could make it, buddy.” He gets a slightly unwelcome stare from the kid, what’s his name—Leo? His tattooed arms crossed over his chest, pecks puffed out and neck rigid like he’s got something to prove. Rollins stares back until the kid breaks eye contact and then he pulls away with a triumphant grin. That’s right you little shit. You’re in league with the big boys now, no more semi-alphas to look tough beside.

 

Rollins nods. “No problem.” He pulls keys from his pocket, the keys he swiped off Boomer the night before as they snagged him into the van. He erases the horrified stare of Boomer’s blue eyes from his memory and drops them into Bucky’s outstretched hand. “The system pulled up the tracking device on Boomer’s truck. They found it down by the docks on Wellsey.” Bucky holds back his breath as tears glitter in his eyes and Steve stalks forward, peeling them out of Bucky’s hand.

 

“You’re sure it’s his?”

 

“Tracking device, boss,” Rollins reiterates softly, trying to hide an eye-roll.

 

“Rollins, you and me can scope the base and the Academy perimeters while Steve and Bucky check out the vehicle,” Rumlow offers, and Rollins jumps at the chance—there’s no way he’d be able to take leading the whole group of them around with Bucky becoming a blubbering mother hen in the back of the car.

 

“I’m coming with you.” The lanky tattooed alpha starts for the door and Rollins stops him in his tracks, with a fistful of his tee-shirt balled up in his hand.

 

“We’re fine.”

 

“He’s right,” Rumlow says. He tears the clip off his communicator, tossing it to Leo.  “I want you glued to Bucky. Guard him with your life.” There is a pained glint in Rumlow’s eye and even Jack’s cold heart cracks a little under the sincerity of it. It would seem there is still something there between the Winter Soldier and his Handler, hidden somewhere deep between the lines. Cap doesn’t like it, and it’s clear as day on his face—his alpha authority being usurped by his omega’s ex. That can’t set well. But his face soon relaxes as Leo steps forward and nods in recognition to both of them—the interest in preserving his husband is still greater than his noble ego. Who knows—maybe he’s even grateful for the gesture in some strange way. “You see anything out of the ordinary—anything at all—you call me first. Understood?”

 

Leo nods. “Got it.”

 

“Let us know if you find anything,” Fury finally intervenes after watching the scene with cool indifference. Bucky shoots him a dirty look—one that says their conversation is nowhere near finished—before he turning on his heel to disappear through the sliding metal doorway, his two alpha guardians following suit.

 

The red-headed lawyer chews on his lip and turns to surveil his alpha’s expression. Frank wears his signature stoic frown, and Matt lightly touches his elbow. “We could set up a look-out and check the police scanners for any activity.”

 

Frank doesn’t look convinced and Rollins adds to the motion by shaking his head. “Thanks for the concern, but this kid’s known to be a pretty live wire. Chances are, he ditched the truck because he didn’t want to be found sneaking out to a friends’ house or something.” Now that Bucky and Leo aren’t in earshot to protest, he can fill the air with all kinds of doubts and further muddy the so-called “investigation”.

 

Frank snorts and his features slide up into a one-sided grin. “You can say that again. Never met an omega I couldn’t persuade. This one wasn’t even fazed. Friggin’ kid took my favorite knife and even gave me half-a-shiner for it.” He touches a crescent-shaped mark below his left eye, one that looks to be halfway healed.

 

Matt furrows his brow, not falling for the bait. “Even more reason to be concerned. If he’s in the habit of sticking up for himself, he could be in some real danger.”

 

“We’ve got it handled,” Rollins barks. For a moment he finds himself wondering if all the outspoken, independent omegas of New York have suddenly convened into a twelve-block radius for the sole purpose of giving him a hard time. He slides a look between the Punisher and his mouthy boyfriend before tapping Rumlow on the back and heading towards the door. “We’d better get moving.”

 

“Jackass,” he hears Matt murmur under his breath as they leave. Whatever business the two have with Fury, it’s not about this. And the less they know, the better.

 

“Swear to Christ, when I find him I’m gonna plant a tracking device on him,” Rumlow murmurs from behind him as they make their way to the car. Rollins can’t help but let out a rough snicker.

 

Rollins heads directly out of town. He patrols the space just outside of the city, without making it look like he’s going in a complete circle. There is no telling what Rumlow’s reaction would be if he knew where the kid was. Being that Boomer is Bucky’s kid, and knowing the way Rumlow feels for Bucky, it’s just a good idea to keep the information to himself. He slides a look over at the man in the seat beside him, but Rumlow stares out over the distance, his nails silently digging holes into the glossy black trim. His phone chimes moments later, and Rumlow snaps it open mid-ring. His eyes shift across to Rollins’. “Boomer just called from a gas station in The Hole. They’re headed there now.”

 

Ice freezes in Rollins’ veins. How is that even fucking possible? The kid should be strapped down to a table and drugged out of his mind by now! “What’s Steve’s location?”

 

“Bucky says they’re at the East Plaza. Steve’s making a U-ey as we speak.”

 

Rollins brings the pedal all the way to the floor. Doing the math in his head, that gives him about a 10-minute head start. There might still be time. He might be able to save this. He snaps the wheel and brings the car over a sharp curb as they accelerate, tires squealing beneath them. “We’re on our way,” he grinds out. There is a possibility that the information has somehow been lost in translation, but just in case…best to inform Aleric. He slides his phone out of his pocket, his eyes flitting between watching the road and glancing down at the screen as he types out the coordinates and his “send”.

 

* * * * *

_Presently..._

 

Boomer shivers, his back pressed firmly against the brick wall of the little building. The dazed teenage alpha with the broken leg is still staring slack-jawed at him as a crackly radio plays a poppy version of some Shania Twain song. Boomer glances out the window occasionally-he can’t see much from where he’s standing, pressed in between a rack of dollar DVDs and a Monster Energy Drink sign, but staying hidden is way more important than finding out who may or may not be headed his way. The teen’s eyes flit down to the silver collar clamped around Boomer’s neck and Boomer pulls the lab coat in higher, effectively covering it. The boy smacks his dry lips together before timidly asking, “You…you from up the hill?”

 

“Don’t know where I’m from,” Boomer mutters. He recalls a steep decline as he bounded through the wooded area but hadn’t looked back on the looming building he escaped from, keeping his mind set firmly on survival. His head is throbbing, the artificial heat still plaguing his body as a string of clear fluid runs down his leg and he knows the kid can smell it on him. His hand goes to the gun still buried in his pocket, the cool hunk of metal providing him his only sense of security for now. He only has to hang in there for a few more minutes—his Dads will be there soon. They are coming for him. He only has to wait for a little while longer…

 

The teenaged alpha brings up a hand with something in it and the movement immediately jolts Boomer’s attention. Within milliseconds, his gun is out and pointed right between his two bulging white eyes. The boy raises both hands defensively, dropping the object in them. It clatters to the counter. “HEY---whoa! It’s okay. It…it’s just a soda.” Boomer’s eyes shift shakily between the boy and the can now resting on its side inches from his hands. He reaches down slowly, bringing it back into Boomer’s line of sight, offering it up in front of him. “I thought…that is…you looked thirsty.”

 

Boomer takes a long, dry swallow and flicks the safety back on, storing the gun in his pocket and warily curling his quivering hand around the can.

 

“I’d open it kind of slowly, though, you know. Since it dropped.” The boy looks down bashfully and it has Boomer completely stumped. He just pulled a gun on the guy and here he is, still…concerned?

 

Boomer cracks it open and catches the fizz at the top. He doesn’t think any sugary, fizzy drink has ever tasted so good. He sucks greedily, drawing out every bubble until he can tip it to catch the actual liquid inside. “S-sorry,” he offers, his voice a near whisper as he drags a sleeve across his lips and his gaze drops to the floor.

 

The boy shrugs. “…’sOkay.” An awkward silence ensues, with Boomer struggling to keep the flaps of the lab coat closed and the boy averting his gaze, a heavy pink blush settling on his freckled cheeks. “We’re not all bad, you know.”

 

Boomer raises his eyes. “What?”

 

“Alphas,” the kid explains. “We’re not all bad.” Something about the way Boomer tilts his head must warrant further analysis, and the kid rests back on the raggedy office chair, propping up his leg cast on a makeshift footrest he fashioned out of a case of Miller Light and a pile of week-old newspapers. “Sometimes the big-shots come in here on their way to that resort up the hill. They bring in their mates sometimes, but usually they stay in the car. The ones that do come inside don’t talk—I don’t think they’re allowed to. They’re all wearing those metal things around their necks.” He gestures with a hand around his throat. “You know—like yours.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter downward, his hand instinctively going to the cold piece of steel. “Do you know what that place is?,” he questions softly. He’s not sure he wants to know. But he knows he has to find out.

 

The boy shrugs. “Some kind of headquarters for a special breeding program. They say it’s like mail-order; alphas with enough money can get pretty much whatever they want.” His eyes drift down to the floor as he chews on his lip. “But none of ‘em have ever came in alone, like you. And they sure don’t carry guns.”

 

Boomer rubs his toes together. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”

 

“It’s okay. I gotta ask, though. Did you…escape?”

 

Boomer’s eyes flit nervously between the floor and the boys hopeful eyes before answering. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

 

The teen’s back hits the chair as a triumphant grin spreads across his face. “Cool.”

 

“P-please, though. Don’t say anything.”

 

“Oh, no worries, dude.” The alpha makes a zipping motion across his lips, throwing away the key. “Those guys are all assholes up there anyway.”

 

The rumble of a car rolling up into the gravel driveway startles them both and Boomer instinctively ditches himself behind the counter and firmly between the strange boy’s legs. He purses his lips, with a finger between them and the boy nods.

 

Boomer waits in silent agony as the car engine stops, footsteps swiftly approach and the little bell above the door chimes. His hand goes to the sturdy, comforting feel of the gun’s grip and he sucks in a breath.

 

“—Made it before they did.” He catches the tail end of the conversation between the two men and immediately recognizes Rumlow’s voice, launching himself out from his hiding place. His legs can keep up with him as he shoves past a bewildered Rollins and throws his arms around Rumlow’s waist. Powerful arms envelop him, squeezing him so tightly his toes come off the floor. His heat soars, too; a fresh spring of emotions and scents that overwhelm him to the point of tears. At last, his alpha is here and he is here and they are together, and no matter how much he hates himself for it he loves it all the same, loves _him_ all the same, peppering his face with kisses as Rumlow chuckles contentedly. “It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s okay. Sssh….Okay. Okay, I got you.” As if to sate his erratic behavior, Rumlow covers Boomer’s mouth with his own, eeking out a muffled whimper from the red-head, who just presses himself in further. Rumlow’s eyes glimmer painfully as he hugs Boomer’s form, damp and naked underneath the shabby white cloak. “My god, baby. What happened to you?”

 

“Whoa.” Rollins takes a physical step backward. “So, that’s why you haven’t been bothering Sasha with regular visits.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter open and he mutters, “Who’s Sasha?,” in the midst of the haze.

 

“Nothin’, sweetheart.” Rumlow offers quickly, the softness in his voice gaining a gritty edge. He sweeps his thumb across Boomer’s cheeks, kissing the dusting of freckles there with wide, persuasive lips. “Shhh, nothing for you to worry about right now. Okay?”

 

Boomer nods—the heat has perhaps stunted his better judgement—pushing away wet strands of his blood-red hair from his face. “Is Dad—?”

 

“He’s on his way, yeah.” Rumlow answers absentmindedly. He has caught a glimpse of the shiny metal ring under the lab coat and loops a finger under it, pulling Boomer’s head back as he inspects it. “—the fuck--?” He turns to Rollins, his eyes burning with a righteous hate. “This—this is the same collar Sasha has.”

 

“Yeah it is,” Rollins grinds out. His focus is away from the happy (but short-lived) reunion and planted on the lot outside. His wide hand clamps down over Boomer’s, completely engulfing it and Boomer winces at the sudden sting, his fresh wounds lighting up under the harsh tug. He peels back, flattening himself to Rumlow’s chest.

 

“What the fuck?!,” Boomer barks.  

 

“Yeah, what the hell, man?” Rumlow looks just as lost, a hand protectively cupped around Boomer’s shoulder.

 

“They’re going to come looking for him,” Rollins offers.

 

“Wait. Who are “they”?” Boomer’s expression is quickly going from frightened to aloof, and it’s beginning to gnaw at Rollins’ patience.

 

He couldn’t have timed it better if it had been staged in a film; Three identical black GMCs roll up in secession, with men in tactical gear and high-caliber weapons piling out. Boomer feels a low growl ebb from his alpha, the swift click of his gun as it locks into place, aiming it at the armored men as they approach and Boomer follows suit. He flashes a warning look across the counter at the poor teenaged alpha with the broken leg. The teen nods, sensing his point, and hobbles as fast as his cast can carry him through the door behind the counter. He hears a heavy bolt slide into place, and Boomer hopes the door is made of the same thick metal. Boomer must notice some of the guards because he lets out an involuntary gasp and aims his own gun alongside Rumlow’s.

 

“It’s them! It’s the guys from the complex! The ones who…who…” Boomer’s voice trails off as he realizes his voice is falling on deaf ears. Rollins stares blankly at him as the guards pile in around him, and then suddenly the switch shuts off completely. He addresses Rumlow, who pushes Boomer in behind his back and trains his weapon on his old partner.

 

“Rumlow,” Jack offers. “This doesn’t have to get messy.”

 

Rumlow widens his stance, his finger wavering over the trigger as he cocks his head to peer through the sight. “Gonna tell me what this is all about, good buddy?”

 

“You know what this is about,” Rollins explains. “He’s not yours anymore, Rumlow, if he ever really was. He’s the property of Highland. Now, if you don’t let him go, this is going to get real bloody real fast. They’re not afraid to shoot through you to get to him. I really don’t want to see that happen.”

 

“I’d do as he says,” the man behind him offers. They are all towering, hulking, massive brutes with similar haircuts and similar tattoos, like the product of some truly messed-up bodybuilding cult. “Aleric just wants the kid.”

 

Rumlow lets out a disgusted grunt. “What did they offer you, Jack? Huh? Was it money? A front row seat at the Alpha dinner?”

 

“My kids’ freedom, Brock.” A pained flash lights up Rollins’ dark eyes as his hand twitches on the handle of his firearm. “All of them. To never have to go through what I’ve put Sasha through. What we’ve put Sasha through. I had to offer them _something_ , man. So…believe me, if—if I had _known_ …” The light leaves as suddenly as it came, a dark shadow casting itself over his expression, falling back into cold indifference. “Clock’s ticking, Rumlow. We can’t wait forever. It’s the kid or you.”

 

“One problem with that,” Boomer speaks out, his voice loud and authoritative as he steps out from Rumlow’s shadow. “I’m not his to give.”

 

All eyes snap to his attention at the sound of a pistol clattering to the floor. Rumlow glances over his shoulder, all color draining from his face as he watches in disbelief and Boomer raises his hands slowly, his bare feet caked in dirt and mud, scuffed by his long run in the woods, red rings around his ankles rubbed raw by the braces. “Boomer, your Dad is gonna be here any—“

 

“You heard him,” Boomer murmurs. “They’re not going to wait that long.”

 

“Now, listen, Rollins---“

 

“Brock, there’s no—“

 

“JACK! You call these assholes OFF, NOW! You think _this_ is it? You think this ends here?? You’re more of a fucking idiot than I thought. Say you kill me and take the kid and march off to your fuckin’ Frankenstein castle in the sky. You think that’s going to matter? You—“ Brock waves his pistol, signifying the entirety of the room, “ALL of you—are going to have Captain America and the Winter fucking soldier coming down to rain holy hell on your asses. You really want that? That’s a war, Jack. A war you and your brute-force _fuck_ buddies don’t have a chance winning.”

 

The men exchange glances, they are shifting their feet and you can tell their resolve has effectively been diminished by the mention of Boomer’s respective fathers.

 

“And Boomer, love—“ Rumlow adds, his eyes locked on the shivering redhead. “You’re wrong, baby. You are mine. You were mine from the day you were born and I saw those big blue eyes of yours. And there’s no way in hell I’m ever lettin’ that go.”

 

Rollins’ shoulders effectively slump, the expression on his face one of tired defeat. He crosses one arm out in front of the men, their weapons drawn, eyes still trained expertly on their targets. “Stand down.”

When the men don’t make a motion to comply, Rollins grabs the barrel of the nearest gun, shoving it towards the ground. “I said, stand down!”

 

Boomer doesn’t remember to breathe again until the last guard shuffles out, casting one last bewildered look over his shoulder. Boomer gasps for air with one hand clamping down on the counter to steady himself.

 

Rumlow draws him into his chest, planting his chin on top of his head and sweeping back wild strands of hair. “I got you, kid. I got you.”

 

The next vehicle pulls in just as the teen alpha unlocks himself from the back room and stumbles out, his eyes wide and frightened. “You’re good,” Boomer promises, his voice more shaky than reassuring. “It’s my Dads.”

 

Leo has attached himself to Bucky’s side, much to Steve’s chagrin as evidenced by his firmly planted frown. Bucky’s expression falters when he eyes his son up and down, reaching a hand out to squeeze the nape of his neck. “What happened?”

 

Boomer is beginning to feel more naked than ever, now, the steady stream of slick having dried on his leg and a stiff breeze blowing through the thin lab coat. “Can-can I tell you in the car?”

 

“Of course.”

 

His strength is walking behind him; his father, his friend, his mate and his alpa-sire as he gives a grateful nod to the kid behind the counter. He flashes him an awkward smile in return.

 

“This isn’t over,” Rumlow murmurs to Rollins, secretly. It goes without saying that he’s not going to be riding back with him.

 

Rollins eyes him with sincere confusion. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

 

“I didn’t do it for _you_ ,” Rumlow spits. “I did it for Sasha and for the fifty-seven kids you have at home, and the thirty two on the way.”

 

“It’s 23 and 4.”

 

“Whatever. Look, man, you’ve got problems, I’ll give you that. But bring Boomer or Bucky into it again and I will personally see to it that you experience whatever “testing” they do up there, three-fold. Dry. Got it?” Rumlow spins on his heel, stalking back to the SUV where Boomer and company wait without sticking around for an answer.

 

* * * * *

 

Steve glares into the rearview mirror behind him and Bucky softly elbows him from the driver’s seat. “Stop it.” Steve shakes his head, half in protest and half incredulous, as his baby boy nuzzles into his former rival in the back seat and tells his tattooed friend all about his abduction like he’s reading a newspaper. It shouldn’t surprising that Bailey is resilient; he comes from stubborn stock. Steve wants to get that silver necklace thing off his son, and NOW.

 

So this is what it has come to—Rumlow couldn’t have his husband, so he decides to take his son? Like he had fucking planned it this way. If Rumlow harbors any hard feelings over what happened with the Bugatti, it doesn’t show. His eyes haven’t met Steve’s piercing gaze since they got in the SUV, and it doesn’t seem an accident. His attention is pinned on the red-head curled halfway onto his lap, switching between absentmindedly petting his back and laying a relaxed hand on his naked leg. Steve sucks in a deep breath and forces down the urge to throw Brock’s gel-spiked head into the car window.

 

And Bucky! Bucky doesn’t seem fazed—he looks not unlike a soccer mom escorting her brats to a Chuck E. Cheese as they nod off in the back, casually eyeing the road with one hand flung lazily over the wheel.

 

When they arrive at Leo’s car, he leans in, pressing his forehead to Boomer’s and ignoring the protective grumble that ebbs from Rumlow’s chest. “I’m gonna see you in class Monday, right?”

 

Boomer nods. “Monday. I promise.”

 

The lanky alpha swings his backpack over his shoulder and offers him a wink—just to piss off Rumlow—as he struts off to his car. “Mine’s right up here,” Rumlow offers, pointing the way and Boomer catches his hand out of the air.

 

“Uhm. Actually…I was wondering if you’d come home. With me.”

 

Rumlow turns his head slowly and methodically, for the first time glancing up into the stark blue eyes of a furious Captain America. Bucky lets out a soft laugh, as if Boomer had just told a preposterous joke. “Boom…are you serious?”

 

Boomer shrugs. “What difference does it make now? They both know we’ve boned like rabbits.”

 

“Bailey!” Steve snaps, a healthy red glow suddenly covering his face.  

 

“No, no, he’s right.” Bucky slides his hand along Steve’s bicep soothingly even as he flashes his son a quizzical look in the mirror. “Boomer…are you sure that’s what you want?”

 

“Are you nuts?” Steve hisses. “Boomer’s in _heat,_ Buck. He can’t make up his own—“

 

“Fine,” Boomer retorts. His resolve, despite the harrowing experience he’s just been through, is impenetrable like steel. He folds his arms across his chest and says, “I’ll stay with Rumlow at his place.”

 

“What?” Steve flies out of his seat—if he could crane his head 180 degrees around he would be delivering death-rays out of his eye sockets, straight at them both. “No! Absolutely not, Bailey! Out of the question.”

 

“Cap…” Rumlow interjects carefully, “I don’t think he’s asking.”

 

Bucky sighs, cranking the wheel and veering past Rumlow’s parked rental and back onto the main street. “Fine, but you’re helping with dinner.”

 

* * * * *

 

This isn’t awkward at all. Nope. Before they even shut the door to Boomer’s bedroom, Rumlow can hear Steve striking up an argument with Bucky and if he had to guess it probably had something to do with propriety and how evil Brock is.

 

Thankfully, Boomer has his own bathroom, though it’s a little smaller than the one in the hallway. It’s got a decent-sized stand-up shower and the first thing they do is strip. Boomer smells like nine kinds of formaldehyde. An aura, maybe of the famous Dr. Bicen? (a man that Rumlow has never met but heard enough horror stories about to want him dead, especially now, for this.) hangs around like wet garbage and Rumlow scrubs Boomer’s skin raw with a loofa and copious amounts of soap to get off. He sees where the bastard touched him— _his Boomer, his omega!—_ the red marks on his wrists and ankles becoming purple bruises. “Jesus, Boomer. I’m going to fucking kill him.” He lathers thick suds as he washes his back, watching them pool at the lower curve of his spine and slip between his ass cheeks. “I promise.” He steps in closer, reveling in the high-pitched moan it produces. He’s got to keep things relatively quiet, but Rumlow prays for the day when he can just give it to Boomer without holding back, fucking him raw until the sounds start flying out of his mouth like music. “And I’m sorry for Leo, Boom. I’m sorry I’m an ass and that I didn’t—“

 

Boomer is suddenly spinning in his arms, his fingers curling around Rumlow’s hardened shaft and jutting forward with a little tug. Rumlow thinks he’s going to black out just from the touch alone—the bulbous head of his dick springs forward a thick stream of precome, coating Boomer’s cupped hand as his sharp little nails dig into the skin. He bites off a cry and slams a hand into the wall behind Boomer, forcing himself to remain upright even as the air leaves his lungs and has him gasping for air.

 

“AgH—F—FUCK—“ When Rumlow forces his eyes open, Boomer is gone, in his place is this red-haired creature of the night with pupils blown wide-open, mouth dropped wide as he goes in for Rumlow’s scent gland, sucking in tight and biting down with little warning.  His arms go around Rumlow’s neck and Rumlow flattens him to the wall in one swift movement, growling in frustration as he noses the thick collar that’s still attached to his neck, lifting it up to get at the scent gland. His mark is still there, just barely—it’s pink and faded and smells faintly of the same chemicals they used to wash the rest of him. He makes a mental note to personally kill each and every person responsible for his capture—including Rollins, if he tries anything like that again—he bites down mid-thought, and Boomer lets out a wail before Rumlow can stifle it. “Sssh, shhhh baby. We gotta be quiet, okay? Can you be quiet for me?”

 

Boomer nods weakly, wiggling his stiff little cock closer to Rumlows, desperate for any kind of release. Rumlow lets out a guttural growl, lifting one of Boomer’s legs in a firm grasp. His fingers touch a glossy strand of fluid that runs down Boomer’s leg and it’s definitely not soap, burying his fingers inside the tight warmth and clamping his free hand down on Boomer’s mouth, muffling a drawn-out wail. “Ssshshh, sweet pea. I know. I know. You want me inside you, huh?” He works his fingers in and out of the ring of muscle in a fluttering motion, gently stretching his entrance to accommodate what’s to come. “You’re gonna show me, okay, kitten? You’re going to show me how much you want it.” Boomer lets out a desperate mewl, throwing his head back against the shower wall as the water cascades down. There is not one inch of him that isn’t screaming out Rumlow’s name, begging to be marked, to be bred.

 

Rumlow slams off the shower and pulls away, even as they both shudder from the loss of contact. He’s going to do this, and he’s going to do this right.

 

“Show me how good you are,” he mutters against Boomer’s open, wanting mouth. Somehow they stumble together and make it to the bed. Boomer’s bed. Rumlow’s nose wrinkles because it smells a bit like Steve, but then again this is Steve’s house and therefore everything smells like him. Their naked bodies collide on top of the comforter, neither one giving a damn that it’s quickly getting soaked through. Boomer is shaking and frantic, rutting against Rumlow before he can get him into position and Rumlow groans, his head buried in between his neck and shoulder blade, possessively biting down. “We gotta be quiet, alright sweetheart? Can you be quiet for me?” Without waiting for a response, he slips two fingers into his mouth, far enough to muffle any keening outburst. Rumlow shifts his hips—they fit so perfectly between Boomer’s taut thighs—as his omega climbs on, gasping with one sharp intake of air as Rumlow lines himself up with Boomer’s tight, fluttering entrance.

 

* * * * *

 

The spiked cry that comes through the door makes Steve launch himself towards the hallway, hackles raised. The little vein on the side of his neck pops up and Bucky stills his hands on Steve’s biceps. “Hey, hey it’s alright... I know.” Steve’s still puffing his chest out, craning his head to see around Bucky’s, his eyes trained on the door. “He’s alright, okay? You know how it is. Brock’s helping him through this.”

 

Steve looks less than convinced, fists balled to either side as he draws out a shuddering breath, forcing down the boiling rage inside. “Yeah. I guess.” He slides back down onto the couch cushions and Bucky joins him, placing his head in Steve’s lap and smiling fondly.

 

“Remember our first time?”

 

A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he absentmindedly twirls a strand of Bucky’s hair around his index finger. “Like I’d forget?”

 

“God, you were so nervous.”

 

“Hey, in my defense, it was my _actual_ first time.” Steve gives the strand a playful yank. “Unlike you, playboy.”

 

Bucky shrugs. “What? Like I was supposed to wait for you to catch a drift? That only took seventy years.”  

 

Steve huffs out a laugh and falls silent, clearly listening for any signs of struggle or danger from the next room. “Gotta take him to Tony. Get that collar off,” he muses.

 

“We will. Let them be for now. Chemically-induced heats are pretty rough but it should pass soon, especially now since he and Brock are…”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Steve growls. “That’s my baby in there, too, you know.”

 

Bucky smiles secretly, his head buried in the crook of Steve’s arm, his thumb sweeping over the fine dusting of hair there. “Yeah. I know.”

 

“Hey Buck, do you know anything about this…this organization? The ones that took Bailey.”

 

“I know that Rollins’ husband is part of the program there.” He lets out a disdainful snort, shifting uncomfortably at the mere thought of omegas being chained and bred like cattle. “Thank god Boomer’s a fighter. I don’t know if we ever would have found him…if…if he hadn’t…”

 

“Don’t talk like that. We would have found him, alright. And I would have personally ripped the limbs off of each and every sicko that touched him. Slowly.”

 

“With a spatula,” Bucky adds and Steve chuckles under his breath.

 

Steve stares at the picture on the mantle of Boomer’s high school graduation. Bucky is holding up his diploma proudly, Steve’s arm thrown around Boomer (whose red hair had begun to grow out over the blonde, so it looks strawberry in color in the photo), beaming and proud despite the signature frown Boomer wears whenever his parents are overly affectionate in public. In the near background, Rumlow stares over Boomer’s shoulder at the picture-taker (which was Nat, if Steve recalls correctly.) It seems he’d always been there, hanging around in the shadows, even after the fallout over Boomer’s first heat.

Steve thought that after that fiasco maybe he was rid of Rumlow forever. That he and Bucky and their son could continue with their lives, uninterrupted (and now for the first time, without having to vie for Boomer’s affections.) Rumlow had always been Boomer’s hero, even after he stopped speaking to him. He had been so crushed over the rejection that his every thought and feeling toward Brock had turned to ice, and Steve would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad for it in a way. But even now, staring at that picture (with Boomer’s silent guardian staring back) Steve realizes he never explored the reasoning behind why Brock left. Why didn’t he take Boomer, when he first presented as an omega and Boomer was practically—literally—throwing himself at him? “I just wanted to keep him for a little while longer, you know?” Steve lets out a shuddering breath, collecting Bucky in his arms and placing his chin on top of his head. “I’m not ready to let go.”

 

“Maybe we don’t have to,” Bucky murmurs, wriggling into Steve’s bulky warmth. “Maybe this…maybe this is how we keep him.” His eyes flicker up to Steve’s and he forces a small smile.

 

Steve grunts as his gaze hits the doorway at the end of the narrow hall and flexes the fist that rests above Bucky’s head. “Maybe. I still don’t like it, though.”

 

Bucky laughs. “You never will, sweetheart. As his Dad, you were his first alpha. Nobody can take that place.”

 

Steve tries a smile, even if the thought doesn’t ease his mind much, and plants a firm kiss on Bucky’s head. Because he is Bucky’s alpha, and Bucky is _his_ omega, even after decades of outside forces trying their damndest to tear them apart. Nothing in the world is going to change that fact, now. Not ever.

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom- _his_ ceiling, _his_ bedroom, back in _his_ home. He lets out a shuddering breath and wriggles contentedly under the body on top of him. The pressure from Rumlow’s cock is splitting him in two, and it feels so _right. He_ has missed this—not just his body or his heat or his stupid omega alignment. He has missed the dark eyes peering into his, the wide tongue now flicking out to lick a stripe of saliva across his chest, the wide lips that lazily capture a nipple and suck it into the warm wetness of his mouth, dragging out a tired cry from his throat.

 

“God, you’re gorgeous, baby,” Rumlow coos, his wide hands sliding up the naked sides of his body, goosebumps alighting every place his fingers touch.

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter closed as he releases an exhausted, sated moan. “It’s gonna be weird facing my parents, isn’t it?”

 

Rumlow chuckles, undeterred by the comment as he worries the skin below his pectoral. “Does it matter?”

 

“No. Not anymore.” Boomer explores the soft black spikes on top of Rumlow’s head, scraping his nails in with light pressure and smiling to himself. “I’m with you. That’s what counts.” His eyelids open as a wide finger bumps the beauty mark on the side of his nose.

 

“Hey.” Rumlow is staring down at him, now, a mercurial galaxy dancing in a dark blue abyss. “I’ve always been with you, baby. I never left.”

 

A grin slides across Boomer’s lips and he elbows him gently, “Getting all soft on me now, Captain?”

 

Rumlow glances down, an eyebrow quirked. “Not yet.” He goes back to nuzzling the crook of his neck, one hand grasping hold of the collar to lift it out of the way of his tongue.

 

“What did Rollins mean about getting his kids’ freedom?”

 

“C’mon, Boom. Let’s not talk about that, yeah? Not right now…”

 

Boomer sits up as best he can, wincing at the pull and pressure as Rumlow shifts inside of him. His knot is still fully inflated, locking them together inside his tight, exhausted hole. “We need to talk about it. I’m not just going to let what happened to me go by the wayside. Especially if there are others suffering the same thing…or worse.”

 

“I love you, you know that?” Rumlow squeezes down on the nape of his neck, his thumb brushing up under the collar and giving it a little tug. “You sound just like your Dad.”

 

“Rumlow…come on. Help me out here.”

 

Rumlow’s sigh turns into a groan as he buries his head further in, letting out a puff of breath that tickles his skin. “Aright. There’s going to be this dinner, I guess, where they auction off new omegas to the highest bidder.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flash. “My god.”

 

“Yeah. It’s some pretty shady shit. Nothing illegal, I don’t think. Rollins was “gifted” his mate, I guess you could say. But only on the promise that he would have lots of kids and eventually hand the omegas over when they came of age.”

 

“That’s fucking _sick._ ”

 

“Oh, it gets better. The kids are going to be auctioned off, so the process just repeats itself all over again.” Rumlow shakes his head just thinking about it. “I tried to warn him years ago, but if they didn’t keep having kids, he’d have to give Sasha back. And he just…couldn’t do it, I guess. He’s more fucked in the head than I am at times, but he loves him.”

 

Boomer raises an eyebrow. “And your…”visits”…with Sasha?”

 

Rumlow shrugs, trying to push back the glow of heat he feels rising to his cheeks. “Erhm…well, Sasha and I…”

 

Boomer nods slowly, letting out a bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

 

“But it’s over, now, alright? I’m a one-omega man. ‘Sides, you’re all the omega I can handle.”

 

Boomer grins through his pout, tucking a hand behind his head as he relaxes against the plush pillows. “You haven’t seen anything yet, old man.”

 

“Good,” Rumlow growls playfully, pushing their noses together. “That’s what I’m countin’ on.” He leans in for a kiss but Boomer snaps up suddenly, rolling as far as he can to one side, reaching for the night stand. “Hey—“

 

“Bicen wanted me because I’m the product of two super-soldiers, right?”

 

“Y…yeah,” Rumlow says blankly, clearly not following.

 

“Then there might still be time!” He pushes the phone in front of Rumlow’s face. “You got Rollins’ number?”

 

“Well. Yeah.”

 

“Call him,” Boomer snaps, his eyes dazzling in the light of the room. A devious smirk crawls its way across his lips. “I’ve got an idea.”

 

* * * * *

 

The apartment is eerily quiet—quieter than it has been in nearly seventeen years, when Rollins was single and childless and did nothing after a mission besides play video games and eat meals out of a toaster oven. “Sasha?” His voice comes out strained and dry, reverberating off the walls as his eyes dart frantically around the room. Sasha’s Ipod is still on its dock, halfway through a playlist of soft classical music and kid’s songs. Clean baby bottles are stacked in the drainer. Thomas the Train is on the TV, set to mute.

 

Then he sees it—an unaddressed white envelope laying on the counter. His hands are shaking so terribly he barely slips the note out before the envelope falls to the ground.

 

 

 

_Dear Jack,_

_It saddens me to have to inform you that your membership in the Highland Alpha Society has been revoked and all rights and property of the Breeding Program have been collected, as per Article 12 Section 6 Paragraph 14 of the Agreement. Unfortunately, the arrangement between us was not met satisfactorily and I have to decline your generous offer. The subject was non-compliant and due to unforeseen circumstances is no longer under my care.  This is why well-bred omegas are so vital to our Program—they learn at a much earlier age to submit to their alpha—all alphas, in fact—a lesson I am not entirely sure you have been instilling in your Omega offspring._

_I want to assure you that Sasha is well, in fact I believe he will grow to be much happier in his new environment. He has been sent to an undisclosed client, one of whom I have the utmost respect and who will retrain Sasha to accept his role as omega, which as I’m sure you understand includes becoming impregnated as soon as possible after his whelping period ends. This client has a wonderful medical facility and is more than capable of delivering the last of your pups. I want to personally thank you for your contribution—27 offspring is no small feat, though I expected nothing less from a superior specimen like Sasha. As for your children, they will be cared for accordingly and will enter the breeding Program upon commencement of their first heat. As for your alpha children, I reassure you they will be utilized to the best of their abilities when they come of age. As for now, all of your children have been dispersed among various Program officials, who will raise them as their own. The exception, of course, being your two Omega children who will be participating in the Auction as scheduled._

_Thank you for your participation in the Program._

_Dr. Bicen, MD, PHD_

 

 

 

 

 

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/Rumboo_zpsamxujpbc.jpg.html)

****The following is a lovely CONCEPT PIECE by the beautiful and extremely talented Redpredator!***** 

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/Boomerpencil_zpsk5nvbopn.jpg.html)

 


	10. Bound and Unbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shiver that Boomer can’t stop runs through him. Who else has had the misfortune of wearing this collar? How many omegas are enslaved to this wicked man? How far-reaching does it go? Boomer swallows sharply, his gaze falling to the Shield recruitment poster across the room. “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay kids, it's been a while. This chapter is slowed down quite a bit from where I was going to take it because a lot is happening and a lot will need explaining. Plus I am trying to learn how to slow down and actually enjoy writing! I hope you like this. Look for the two photo manips for visual reference :) 
> 
> Trigger warnings: there is a reference to forced delivery. I want to assure everyone that YES the pups are okay! Also an implied rape scene at the end. And as always, lactation kink :)

He drifts awake into a world of complete silence. It's the first time in a long time that he hasn’t been greeted by the soft wail of a newborn pup or a small child tugging on his arm begging for breakfast. It feels strange. Empty.

The four little heartbeats that should be accompanying his are eerily quiet, too. No movement stirs in his belly. No fingers reaching to tickle the underside of his ribs. His eyelids are as heavy as bricks, so instead of opening them he drifts a hand down to his navel and jerks it back quickly. He gasps as his body convulses into tremors at what he finds...nothing. Flatness. No pups to curve the outline of his stomach. No bulge protruding from his waist. He chokes out a sob that surprises even him, his shivering fingers returning to press down on the soft plane of his abdomen. It’s as if they were never there.

The shock has revived him enough that his eyes peel open to reveal the red satin sheets he’s laying on and the black scrap of a night-thing that barely covers him. Beyond that is a vast room--decadently decorated with curtains thicker than canvas shrouding the windows. He struggles to slip out of the oversized bed, the familiar painful pull on his lower half indicative of recent delivery.

It smells like heavy cologne and spilled champagne, a powerful, sickening stench that has his stomach churning. He looks down to his bare feet then to the wall across the room which is empty except for a towering oil painting of a ship in storm--Sasha doesn’t recognize the work, but it was obviously crafted by diligent, skillful hands. The ship is wrought with crashing waves as the foamy sea engulfs it. Out of the tidal, blood-red tentacles coil around to ensnare the ship. Sailors no larger than a grain of rice jump into the abyss, out of reach of the beast’s gaping mouth but into certain death. A shiver runs through him.

A soft knock at the door jolts him from his thoughts and he freezes in place as it opens. A small, tired man with white hair and a long face enters. “Forgive the intrusion,” he murmurs. His expression is devoid of life, as if he’s seen hundreds of Sasha’s kind before, as he extends a gloved hand. “The alarm alerted us that you had finally awakened. His Lordship will see you now.”

Plenty of questions scurry through his mind as he follows the man out into a narrow hallway that opens into a vast staircase(--no, sets of staircases--it looks like something from one of his children’s disney movies). Why is he here? Where is “here”? Where are his pups? How long has he been here? Who is “we”? Who is “His Lordship”? Where are his babies... _all of them_? He swallows dryly as tears rim the surface of his eyes and threaten to spill over. The one thing that is clear is that he is to follow and obey without question.

Soft piano music floats up the winding steps and sinks into the enormous paintings surrounding them as they make their way down to what Sasha can only assume is the main level. This is not a house--it’s a palace. His bare feet land on the cold marble floor, his figure casting a lanky shadow on the polished stone.

He follows the older man past a few more corridors which open occasionally into small sitting rooms, each with a billiard table or a fireplace or both. The music grows closer as they enter into an insidiously long hall with a table that seems to stretch on for miles. The heavy curtains are easily twenty feet tall and are drawn tightly closed, not even a sliver of the bright morning sun being cast inside.

Seated at the end of the rows and rows and rows of chairs, at the head of the table and in front of a crackling fireplace is a man, all in black (again, little surprise there), his head bowed slightly, staring intently at the open tablet in front of him. His fingers flit across the screen several times before the old man clears his throat and he perks up, a bright smile suddenly lighting the soft lines of his face. He is young--at least, younger than Jack--with brown hair slicked back into soft waves on the side of his head, like something out of a 50s movie poster, a few white hairs glinting from his temples. “Ah! Good morning.”

Sasha stares emotionlessly back as the old man pulls out a chair for him, directly beside the smiling man. He has seen one too many of those kind smiles. Too often there is evil lurking beneath such a meticulously manicured surface. Still, instinct and conditioning dictate that he take the seat offered, and so he does, gingerly perching himself on the edge as the old man pushes him up to the table.

The man leans in, the scent of Burberry and his own alpha smells assaulting Sasha’s nose. “You are just as beautiful as I would have hoped.” His wide smile reveals a set of gleaming, pearly teeth and suddenly Sasha has the urge to vomit again.

He clutches his barren stomach and looks away.

“Ah, yes. I’m sorry about that. We wanted you to have the freshest start possible, and seeing as you only days away from your delivery--”

Sasha’s head snaps up, the protective fury of a mother wolf dancing in his eyes. “WHERE ARE THEY?”

The man seems taken aback, his smile quickly sliding downward into a grimace as he leans against the high back of the chair. “They are safe. I assure you.” He eyes the flustered omega with a quizzical glare before raising a glass of orange juice to his lips and taking a slow sip. “You are not entitled to even _that_ knowledge. But there it is, nonetheless. Bicen is right--you have forgotten your place.” The slight grin returns moments later, his eyes dancing with dark intent. “I’m glad.”

A shiver runs through him at the name, his eyes remaining defiantly locked on to that of the alpha’s.

The alpha dismisses the old man with a wave of his hand and Sasha’s heart drops as he is abandoned to whatever fate this man has planned. He focuses in on the piano song’s final crescendo before it fades and swallows sharply, bending a knee to hide himself in what little coverings he’s been afforded. “Chopin’s Etude,” he murmurs. “Opus 25.”

The man raises his eyebrows over the glass. “You are a classical study?”

“Only an appreciator.” His eyes drop down at his barren stomach, guarding it with a closed hand. There is no pain--only an overwhelming sense of emptiness. He wonders where he was in his mind at the time the pups were taken from him--whether he was knocked unconscious or put under a medically induced sleep as they were torn from his body. The Serum gives him a regenerative healing factor that has made quick work of any of the usual postpartum symptoms. It is as if they were never there to begin with.

A hand reaches across the table towards his bicep and Sasha flinches at the disgustingly familiar touch. “I have no doubt your thoughts are overwhelmed right now. But I guarantee you that to dwell on them will only cause you needless pain and suffering. They are fine. All has been taken care of. They are no longer your concern.” (as if to _calm_ Sasha, as if to comfort him!) And the sooner you realize this, the better for everyone, including yourself.”  

“I’m not supposed to be here. I...I was supposed to be... _his_ ! _”_ Sasha hisses, eyes slamming back up to meet the alpha’s. “His and no one else’s. I was to bear _his pups--his alone!”_

The soft reach of the fingers becomes a vice-like grip as the man yanks Sasha forward, slamming his chest into the table. He lets out an involuntary squeak of surprise as the man’s mouth hovers in closer to his ear, his hot breath blowing through clenched teeth. “Listen carefully, _pet_ . I am not above administering punishment where it is clearly called for. You have asked far enough questions for today. In case you have forgotten, you are a _belonging._ A bargaining chip in a game you are far too simple to understand. You will breed _when_ I tell you, and with _whom_ I tell you to. If you do not, consequences will be swift and of a manner of my choosing. Your pathetic blue-collar-Alpha afforded you far too many freedoms. It’s you who has to pay that price.” He releases Sasha with a vicious shove, returning to his glass of orange juice just as the old man hobbles back in.

“Sir, shall I have the cook prepare breakfast?”

An eerie grin plays along the man’s thin lips. “I would like that. Yes, Simon.”

Sasha watches through thick black bangs as two bulky men in white uniforms stride forward. The heavy chair Sasha is sitting in is easily wrenched back as a set of massive arms collect him. “Wh--?!!” Sasha stares, eyes wide with fright, as he is lifted like he is nothing more than a loaf of bread and brought down onto the table directly in front of the grinning man. He lets out pleading little wails that go unheeded as he is flattened against the table, one man on either side holding him down. His legs kick against the slick surface as he gazes upside down at the suited alpha, who sets down his empty glass with a smooth, indifferent stare and gathers a napkin around his neck.

His sharp nails search for purchase along the hairy arms like tree-trunks, pinning him as the seated man bends forward. “Quiet down! Good Lord.” When his head comes close enough for Sasha to gnash his teeth at him, Sasha receives a firm backhand that sends his head back into the table with a heavy THUD. “Insolent _dog_ ,” he spits.

Wide fingers tear at the flimsy scrap of fabric covering him until the top buttons come undone. Sasha groans against the impossible weight of the beasts as they crawl nearly on top of him. The cool air hits his chest, and it’s only now that he feels how heavy and sore his nipples are, full with milk to nourish his new pups. His missing pups.

A hand wrenches his face to the side, and Sasha’s not sure who it belongs to. Wandering fingers skitter down his sharp collarbone and lower, to his sore chest, the touch suddenly becoming gentle once again, almost reverent. “Aaah,” the man lets out a satisfied purr, wriggling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and giving it an experimental pinch.

Sasha wails.

“Ssssh, there there, little omega. Is that what is the matter? Is it your sore, aching tits?”

Sasha lets out a defiant growl, slamming his head back against the table when efforts to jerk upright fail. He twists his left arm out of one of the cooks’ reach, only to be caught again by the other.

“They look _painfully swollen,”_ The man taunts. He flicks a digit across the blooming bud while sweeping upward with wide fingers until one pearlescent bead leaks out. “I can help you with that, you know. After all, it is something an Alpha does to draw closer to his omega, to help him in his time of need.”

“Bastard!” Sasha flails, his black hair whipping across the man’s face as he digs into the table with all his might, muscles firing, belly rising and falling with jagged breaths.

The man’s mouth closes around, the sudden scraping of teeth against the raw flesh setting Sasha’s skin ablaze. He bites down on his bottom lip, muffling a sharp sob. Intense pressure comes next, the suction of a grown man’s mouth being far more powerful than that of a mere baby. It is greedy--hungry--possessive. He latches on, the scrape of stubble burning into Sasha’s skin, wide fingers splaying across his pectoral, a subtle fullness protruding from the otherwise flat surface.

As with many other things in his life, he decides at some point that it’s best to just let it happen as the nourishment and nutrition meant for his newborn pups is greedily siphoned out of him. He switches from one nipple to the next, and back again until Sasha is whimpering and raw and emptied. The man’s scent is overpowering and nauseating. After what feels like an eternity, he finally lifts his head with a sated sigh and dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

A lone bead of white fluid smatters his chest. Dry. It feels so dry. He’s drained every drop. The arms holding Sasha down steadily drift away, and Sasha scrambles off the table, panting and shaking like a rabid animal. He finds a dark corner beside a towering pillar with a bust of Julius Caesar on top and flattens himself against it, clinging to the pathetic shred of clothing that falls around his shoulders.

“Full-bodied with a light, buttery bouquet and a soft, sweet aftertaste.” The man rises from his spot at the head of the table as he meticulously folds the used napkin and places it next to the empty glass as he adds, “and a very clean finish.”

Sasha freezes as the distant music begins again, drifting into the vast room from some unknown corridor. _Piano Concerto #4_ , _by Mozart._ The unnamed alpha eyes him up and down before finally addressing the two bulky men in white. “I will expect the same dish for lunch. To be served at 2:34 precisely. And again at 6:45 for dinner.” A shiver runs through him and he hates himself for it. “But for now, send for the barber.” He returns his attention to Sasha, this time a quirked eyebrow accompanying his critical stare. “We really must do _something_ about that hair.”

* * * * *

Bucky had nearly forgotten what Brock smells like clean. The usual scent of gunpowder and leather takes on a hint of freshly polished chrome as he pads with bare feet down the hallway, a towel tied loosely around his mid-section. Bucky’s not the blushing type, but something in Brock’s knowing grin causes the heat to spread like wildfire across his face. Brock has got to be nearing his sixties, and with the hard life of murder and mayhem he’s lived, he should be showing it.  It would hardly surprise Bucky if that man had made a deal with the devil because his looks haven’t changed a bit save the smattering of white on his temples and the defined edges of his sharp cheekbones. His muscles are still a knotted, sculpted mass of sinew and fibers protruding under tight, tanned skin which is still wet and shimmering from his shower. Even in the pale morning light, he glistens like a god.

“Where’s the old man?”

He leans in close, the fragrance threatening to catapult Bucky back in time with its lure. He closes his hand over his nose, and Brock gets the gist because he backs up slightly, suddenly becoming conscious of the towel that barely clings to his sharp hip-bones. “Still in bed,” Bucky murmurs softly.

Brock lets out a quiet huff as he steps around the corner to start the coffee. “So is Little B.”

A smile tugs at Bucky’s lips. It has been a long time since he’s heard that nickname. Bucky leaves his place on the sofa and slides into one of the bar stools bordering the kitchen counter as Brock runs the water. He absentmindedly scrubs at the five-day-old stubble on his face, eyes flickering up to meet Brock’s as he runs the water. He catches the secretive grin on Brock’s face and frowns quizzically. “What?”

Brock cocks a hip as he waits for the pot to fill. “Well, come on, Daddy, let’s hear it.”

Bucky’s back straightens. “Hear what?”

Brock’s voice lowers to a soft murmur. “I know you, sugar. You’ve been itchin’ all night, worried about your baby. He’s fine. I promise. I...I don’t want to get into detail here, but if you ask me, I ain’t the one that needs a speech on taking things easy. I’m not in the door two seconds and that kid’s jumping my bones like a spider-monkey, and I--”

Bucky raises a hand of surrender. “Ah! Okay, okay, enough! That’s….enough information for me, thanks.”

Brock shrugs. “A’right.” He turns his attention back to the task at hand, turning the coffeemaker on and side-stepping back into the hall. “Guess I better get some clothes on before Mr. Wonderful wakes up, huh?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, but Bucky is close enough to reach over and snag a bicep with his metal fingers as Brock turns away. “Rumlow.”

His dark eyes flash with a look that Bucky is certain Brock has saved only for him up until now. One that he shares with Boomer, now too. It’s one of softness and sadness, the hidden part of him that only shines through once in a century. There is no need for barriers, here. Not between old friends.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Bucky tries a small smile. “For loving him as much as I do.”

Brock pulls him in, planting a quick kiss on Bucky’s forehead before turning on his heel and continuing on down the hallway.

Breakfast is strained and quiet. The threatening looks being tossed between the two alphas goes unnoticed as Boomer talks away about school and the private mission and how he can’t wait to get the collar off from around his neck. Rumlow is probably number two or three on the list of “Alphas Steve Rogers Can’t Stand”, so Bucky watches his husband intently for any sign that he might be about to explode.

It comes when Brock puts a hand underneath the table to absentmindedly caress Boomer’s thigh. Steve lets out a little snarl, subconsciously throwing out his scent to remind the rival alpha just *whose* territory they are in, hackles raised. “Babe,” Bucky murmurs, gently squeezing down on Steve’s hand. Steve takes a deep breath and shakes it off, making a full recovery as Brock realizes his mistake and eases up on the PDA.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve manages under his breath. “As long as he doesn’t start making out with him, I might manage to keep my omelette down.”

The issue of where Boomer is going to live will have to come later. Right now, Bucky would settle for being able to leave them alone for a few minutes without coming back to find one died while attempting to swallow the other. Boomer is happily oblivious to his Father’s plight. He has his alpha-sire and his alpha and his Daddy all in the same room together, the way Bucky imagines he wanted things back when he first presented as an omega. Bucky feels a slight twinge of loss at the thought of his baby boy now being all grown up and of an age to start a family of his own, if he should one day choose. He reaches over as his unsuspecting his son’s story of his brave escape comes to a close, drawing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in tight.

“You’ve barely eaten anything,” Steve mutters, pushing Boomer’s plate further under his nose. He’s responding to the sudden fatherly instinct to take over where they’ve left off, and it leaves Boomer rolling his eyes.

“Dad, I’m talking here.”

“Yeah I see that. Talk later. Eat while your food is still hot, will ya?”

Brock chucks Boomer’s bicep for effect and recieves a dirty look from the redheaded omega. He replies with an impish grin. “What your Dad said, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Boomer grumbles, nonetheless ending up scooping copious amounts of egg onto his fork and piling it into his mouth.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise. It would seem in all the excitement, Boomer had forgotten how ravenous he really feels. “Easy there. You don’t have to inhale it.”

“You worked up quite an appetite there, babe.” Brock chides, sweeping loose tendrils of hair from Boomer’s face and tucking them behind his ear.

Steve growl rumbles in his chest.

“Noh timhe,” Boomer eeks out around a mouthful of food before swallowing it in one sharp gulp. “I gotta get going. Leo and me are going to the Shield Lab to see about getting this thing off.” He tugs at the silver ring around his throat for effect.

“Leo and _I_ ,” Steve corrects.

Boomer drowns his glass of orange juice in one swallow, setting the glass down with a thud. “Whatever.”

“And I thought Uncle Tony was going to be helping you with that?”

“Yeah, but I have to go there anyway, and I might as well get it taken care of.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and he folds his arms in front of his chest to lean against the high back of the chair. “What business do you and Leo have at Shield lab? I thought Leo was the jock-type?”

“No worries,” Boomer tosses over his shoulder as he rises from his spot at the table. He kisses Rumlow haphazardly, missing his lips, gives his Dad a pat on the shoulder as he brushes past, swiping his hoodie from the coat rack and jerking open the door. “See you guys at dinner. Might be bringing Noa. Is that okay?”

“Thats---” The door slams closed. “--fine.” Steve glances at Rumlow accusatorily. “You know anything about this?”

Rumlow shrugs. “Nadda.” He stands up, scooping up his and Boomer’s discarded plates to carry them to the kitchen. “But he’s my responsibility now, Cap. And I’ve got my eye on him. So loosen up a bit, will ya?”

Steve jerks open the dishwasher, jamming the used flatware inside. "Somehow, Rumlow, you having my son's _back--_ " Glasses scrape together angrily "--doesn't increase my confidence."

Bucky can no longer hold back an eye roll. “Jesus fucking Christ, you two.” He drags a hand through his thick brown hair as he starts to feel the dull pang of a migraine coming on.    

* * * * *

Shield’s Science and Research Division is a hub of activity. It’s a building made almost entirely of glass, with natural light filtering in through stained glass windows that have been designed with all the flags of every world nation. Drones flit from floor to floor delivering random parts and pieces, yet somehow there is harmony in the entropy. A myriad of Avengers posters and authentic Captain America WW2 propaganda plaster the spiraling, transparent staircases. It’s a hub of activity abuzz with the latest and greatest in spy tech, square glasses and multi-colored scarves. What a bunch of nerds.

“Wow…” Leo’s mouth gapes open stupidly as he surveys the vaulted ceiling.

“Yeah, don’t get too excited,” Boomer murmurs. He pushes past a group of school children and their respective tour guide, making his way to the front desk. “And remember what I told you. No touching the gear _or_ the guys, okay?”

Leo shrugs it off with a snicker, flashing a toothy grin. “Really Boom? Ya know, as your professional partner, it hurts that you don't trust me.”  

“Can I help you gentleman?” The front desk is a large panel. A floating image of what Boomer assumes is an A.I. flashes just over its surface in a wave of green and blue.

“Yeah. Looking for Noa Lion.”

“Noa Lion is Head of W.I.R.E., or Worldwide Intelligence Regulation, Engineering department. Take the elevator to the fourteenth floor. His office is in Level 3-J.”

“Dude, their floors have _levels_?”

Boomer stifles the urge to roll his eyes and grabs his gawking cohort by the arm, dragging him towards the elevator after tossing a half-wave back to the A.I. Secretary. “Thanks.”

Noa has grown like a weed. His dark brown hair sticks up in soft spikes into a messy fohawk, with bright red glasses framing the rounded features of his face. Cocoa-brown eyes peer out from behind them, but instead of the soft expression Boomer had gotten so used to seeing in class day after day, they are now two piercing beams of determination and focus. He still wears snug tee shirts loosely tucked into the waist of his cargo khakis, only now there’s always a collared shirt draped over the top.  A stylus tucked behind one ear and a shell choker complete the look.

Boomer waves gingerly from the back, flashing a smile that he knows is not half as confident as he’s trying to make it look. Noa’s eyebrows go up, and yeah it would be surprising to see two Shield Academy affiliates --the self-proclaimed jocks of the Division--gracing the door of the nerded-out omega hideout. Noa approaches cautiously, lowering the tablet in his hand. “Hey Boom.”

Boomer can feel Noa examining Leo with certain disdain over his shoulder as they exchange a one-armed hug. “Hey, Noa.”

He pulls away, his normally jovial expression sliding into a wary frown.  “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Leo. I promised him I’d bring him along to see all the Toys.” A hard body wedges past Boomer’s, causing him to surge forward. “Hey, what--?” Leo shoves him aside, extending his hand out, a wide grin covering nearly have his face.

“I’m Leo.”  

Noa gives him a tight nod and as his hand is nearly wrung from his wrist. “So he said.” He fails at hiding a slight grimace beneath his shallow smile and recovers his hand at the earliest opportunity. Leo is too busy getting drunk off the scent of unbred omega to notice his advance isn’t being welcomed so much as tolerated.

Boomer brushes off the tingle of jealousy making its way up his spine and runs a hand through his hair before continuing on into the bustling lab. “Anyway, we know you’re busy, but I was wondering if I could get a little help with this.” Boomer tugs off his hoodie, slipping a finger around the metal bracket still around his neck.

Noa’s eyebrows raise as he lifts the collar to inspect it. “What is this thing?”

Boomer sighs. “Exactly what it looks like. I ran into some...trouble...on a mission, and--”

“Since when are you allowed on missions?”

Boomer baulks a little at this, his hackles rising ever so slightly. He folds his arms across his chest and throws out his chin. “Since Fury sent us on an ultra-secret, super-risky directive to procure the Punisher for a big assignment he’s working on.”

“If it’s so secret, why would you willingly divulge the identity of an outlaw vigilante that you claim is involved in it?”

Boomer’s eyelashes flutter as his mind searches for an answer, his mouth dropped open in hopes that words will follow. Leo snickers, sidling up to throw a lanky, tattooed arm around his shoulders. “He’s got you there, kid.”

“Shut up,” Boomer grumbles. “Anyway, can you take this thing off or not?”

Noa chews on his bottom lip and that gets Leo stifling a groan. Noa flashes a look his way and then back to Boomer. “Something wrong with your...friend?”

“Where do I begin?,” Boomer grumbles. “Oh yeah. He’s an alpha, so there’s that.”

“Couldn’t tell,” Noa murmurs flatly. “Give me a second to grab my tools. I’ll meet you over at the welding station.”

It’s an awkward position to be in, for sure. A bright light flicks on over his head as he bends his head to a soft mat with a medical paper covering. It’s not unusual for the technical minds of W.I.R.E. to work with dismantling alien hardware. Boomer recalls Bucky saying that when he had finally officially joined on at Shield (and later as a full-fledged member of the Avengers) he allowed W.I.R.E.’s team of brainiac engineers to completely disassemble his mechanical arm in hopes of gaining whatever pertinent Soviet information contained within it.

Noa always has been a master of all things technical so it was only natural he procure a job working with computers and robots and all the things he’d always geeked out about that Boomer simply couldn’t relate to. A far as professions go, Noa chose a pretty typical “omega-esque” job; safe and quiet for the most part, with only slight intermissions of danger (ones that the alpha badasses of S.T.R.I.K.E. deal with properly).

“This is some pretty space-age stuff,” Noa murmurs. From the corner of his vision, he watches as Noa fidgets with the latch. “Nothing I’ve seen before, but it’s aged tech at the same time too. This piece must be at least, what, ten, fifteen years old?”

A shiver that Boomer can’t stop runs through him. Who else has had the misfortune of wearing this collar? How many omegas are enslaved to this wicked man? How far-reaching does it go? Boomer swallows sharply, his gaze falling to the Shield recruitment poster across the room. “I need your help.”

“I’m helping you right now, I thought.”

“Yeah but...I mean, with something else.”

Noa lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You really are helpless without me, aren’t you?”

A small grin tugs at the edges of his mouth. “Yeah, I am.”

Noa takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly as he works away at the collar, his gentle fingers tickling the back of Boomer’s neck. “Okay. So I am sure I’m going to regret asking this but...what do you need my help with?”

“Well…” Boomer glances up at him, his blue/green eyes dancing wildly in the bright light. “How would you feel about hacking into a system for me?”

Noa shrugs. “Sure.”

“Undercover?”

Noa lowers his tools. “Boom. Are we talking about another mission of yours?”

His eyes narrow as he tucks his chin in between his hands, looking straight ahead. “No. This one is personal.”

* * * * *

 

 

Noa

 

 

* * * * *

Tasha has straight black hair like her Daddy and the poker-face of her alpha-sire. Both of her parents were shocked when she presented as an omega. Tasha was heartbroken. She had always been a tomboy--tough, rough around the edges, and quick to start fights. When the goons broke into the apartment and took her and her siblings and Daddy away, she was the first to get a couple hits in. Also the first to be knocked unconscious.

And now, she stares up at the ceiling, a blinding white light flickering on above her head, throwing herself against thick black restraints that bind each limb. She lets out a frustrated roar when they tighten down against the movement and slams her head back to the thin pillow beneath it.

A strange-looking man with skin that looks too stretched over the sharp features of his face approaches. He wears a labcoat and a green turtleneck that looks stiff and itchy, and carries a clipboard.

Fear seizes her when she realizes she is nude except for a pair of faint white underwear, bending her knees on instinct in an attempt to cover herself.

“Natasha, is it?” The man says. She spits at him and he easily deflects it with his clipboard, rolling his eyes in response. “I’m tiring of this insolent behavior, girl, and you are my last patient of the day. I am going to ask only this once that you do not test me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The man runs a sickeningly familiar hand down her thigh as she tries desperately and fails to kick it away. “Oh, but my dear, sweet thing…” His smile reveals a row of pearlescent white teeth too perfect for a man his age. “That’s what _you’re_ for.”

* * * * *

 

 

Sasha

 


	11. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “STOP IT!” Bucky gives his hand a good shake before the realization hits and he backs off slowly. He clears his throat, slamming his eyes to the gravel ground. “I...I know you love my son, and you know I love Steve. So...so exactly why is this happening?” Both hands fly up into his cinnamon hair, his angelic face twisted in pain, eyes rimmed with wetness and threatening to spill over.  
>    
> “You know why,” Brock lets out softly. It is peeled from his chest without so much as a pang of hesitation. Saying the unspoken. “You know we love each other, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tread cautiously. I'm not going to lie. There is a curveball coming that even I did not expect. I want to remind everyone that this story DOES have a happy ending--in the end, all of our couples with come through and Sasha and Rollins will be united with their little ones. Unfortunately, I am Hydra trash and I have to stay true to where I feel the characters leading me. 
> 
> This chapter is mostly pertaining to Bucky. 
> 
> I so hope you enjoy--this fic has been my very heartbeat for the past few months. Anything that happens between characters is not taken lightly---I would never write anything that I felt might permanently jeopardize their happiness. 
> 
> Please leave me a kind word, even if you only liked it a little. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading. I love you all! <3

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Bucky wakes up covered in sweat. He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but apparently it’s been long enough for Steve to find him and crawl into bed with him after a long shift at the Avengers Tower. Bucky had slipped out early when he felt the familiar pangs in his lower region--the sweet/hot fire that crept into the pit of his stomach and settled there like a pile of warm ash. He glances at the clock: 9:43pm.

 

It’s been a long time since a heat has hit him this hard--the doctor warned him that’s what taking too many of the abortifacients would do, but what choice does he have? The Serum knocks out pretty much all heat suppressants he’s tried and he can’t be getting pregnant every five months with Steve’s pups. Steve is still mostly asleep but every Alpha synapse in his body is responding to what Bucky’s putting out. He lets out a dull whimper as one of Steve’s tree-trunk biceps crosses over his chest, effectively pinning him to the bed.

 

“Ugh,” He groans, wedging his metal hand between his pectoral and the crushingly heavy limb. All it does it make Steve wriggle in closer, drowsily smacking his lips and squeezing the air out of Bucky’s lungs. “St..Steve…” Bucky whines, pushing back against him, the rounded curve of his ass nestling into Steve’s lap. He jumps a little when Steve’s hips roll, the rock-hard limb between them finding its way between Bucky’s cheeks despite the fact that they are both still in uniform. Bucky swears under his breath as his blood pressure spikes and slick begins seeping from his entrance like an open wound. Steve’s chin is tucked into Bucky’s neck and wouldn’t you know, his breath is ghosting over the overactive nerve endings just above his scent gland and Bucky hates himself just a little for how good it feels.

 

“Mhhhhmmm…” Steve shifts a little to accommodate the rod now bulging out from his pants, giving Bucky’s ass a firm shove that would properly impale him if it weren’t for the stiff uniform fabric barely separating them.

 

“Steve, Please…” Bucky despises how pathetic he sounds, clamping his metal hand around his husband’s and trying to slowly pry himself out from underneath his strangulating hold. Steve is now fully awake, Bucky realizes as he begins to nip tenderly at his throat. Bucky’s head flies back to the pillow as spikes of pleasure rip through his resolve, his body practically singing for his alpha’s touch.

 

God but he needs it. _He needs his alpha’s knot working him slowly apart till he ceases to breathe and he can no longer tell where his body ends and Steve’s begins._

 

“Jesus, Buck, you’re burning up.” He barely notices Steve’s palm against the side of his face for the intensity of his need.

 

He pushes out of Steve’s arms, jolting upright to suck in deep gulps of air.

 

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is filled with genuine concern that borders on fear as he props himself up on one elbow and reaches out for Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tears it away.

 

“NO,” Bucky hisses. “Sorry...I just...‘m so sorry, sweetheart. We...we can’t.”

 

Steve lets out a confused laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “Uh...alright. I guess I just don’t get why we can’t?”

 

“Because I’m tired.” Tears threaten to spill down his cheeks so he forces his head away--he can’t let Steve see him like this, weak and desperate. “I’m tired of killing our babies.”

 

There is silence from the bed; a long, tense pause spans several moments before Steve speaks again, his voice hushed and restrained. “You could always asked me to wear a condom.”

 

Bucky lets out a bitter laugh. “You think I haven’t thought of that? Unfortunately, the condom that could hold your little soldiers in hasn’t been invented yet.”

 

“Spose that’s true,” Steve mutters. The bed dips as he swings his legs over to come to a sitting position next to Bucky, drawing one massive arm around him, holding him tight to his chest.

 

“Don’t.” Bucky pushes back half-heartedly, and Steve has always been a poor listener when something is standing in the way of what he wants. Bucky’s skin prickles when a pair of wide, soft lips come to nuzzle the silky skin below his ear and he can feel himself soaking the seat of his tactical pants.

 

_So ready for it._

 

“Would it be so bad?” Steve’s wide hand skirts around Bucky’s back, dipping down underneath the waistband of his pants and coming to rest in the divots just above his tailbone. Bucky melts into the touch. He’d purr if he could. “A little troupe of Steves and Buckys running around?”

 

Bucky gasps as Steve’s fingers snake lower in between the two rounded mounds of flesh to flutter at his weeping hole. “No,” he manages. “N-No it wouldn’t be s...so bad.”

 

“God you don’t know how much I want that,” Steve moans into his ear. The pressure at Bucky’s entrance increases as Steve’s fingers make it past the tight ring of muscle to invade his channel. The dull sucking sound of his fingers working away at the tight ring of muscle is barely muffled by the thick fabric of Bucky’s pants. “To knot you for hours and fill you up with my seed, give you as much as you can stand.”

 

Bucky feels his face flush even as his dick jumps at the thought. Where did Shy Little Steve go? The one who wore newspapers in his shoes and was so bashful he couldn’t hold a girl’s hand let alone bring himself to kiss her? Now he’s tall and massive and murmuring dirty things in Bucky’s ear that are making him so needy he can’t seem to catch his breath. Bucky’s hole flutters and he lets out a sharp cry.

 

The hand that isn’t busy working him into a frenzy clamps firmly over his mouth, and suddenly Bucky is surrounded with his alpha’s scent--the smell of maple trees and mountain water and bright sunflowers and buttered rum assaulting his senses so quickly his head spins. “Sssh….shhh, sweetheart. We’re not alone, remember?”

 

Bucky’s thoughts shift to Rumlow and Boomer, both of whom are probably asleep (or otherwise) in the adjoining room.

 

Steve slips two fingers inside his pouty mouth to sate him and Bucky moans around them, sucking the digits in and wetting them greedily with his tongue. “There you are, baby. We’ve got to be quiet. Is this okay?”

 

Bucky nods weakly. He wants so badly to drop to his knees right now, to let his instincts take over and present himself to his alpha to be fucked and bred and filled with him, but he’s not entirely sure he could support himself to present properly. His legs feel like two noodles being slowly stretched apart by the digits embedded in his ass.

 

“I want that, baby doll. I want to see you pregnant again. I miss that. I want so badly to be a Daddy again, to be the father of _your_ children. To fill you full to bursting and to watch you grow fat with our pups.”

 

“Fuck….Steve….” Bucky is no longer there--he is floating somewhere above, in the ether, staring down at his own body as he Steve hoists him onto his lap backwards. As if he weighs nothing. The fingers leave his entrance and the emptiness alone could kill him, despite the pathetic job they did filling him to begin with. It was something. It was Steve, it was his flesh and his scent and now it’s gone. Bucky sobs pathetically around the digits still firmly filling his mouth.

 

Zippers slide down, buckles unlatch and kevlar and khaki float away until nothing remains but flesh. Steve springs forward, heavy and hard like wrought iron. It is mere seconds before he is backing Bucky up onto it, legs spread, fingers still buried in his mouth to muffle the helpless wails as he lines himself up. ‘Gonna make me a Daddy, Buck?” He bites down on the mating mark, the tender pink skin just under Bucky’s jaw as he draws his arms tightly around him.

 

“Y-yeah,” Bucky’s whimper turns into a wail as the meaty Alpha cock assaults his slick-coated entrance, pushing inside with a single shove, nearly to the hilt. He convulses as the powerful arms wrap around him, holding him there, pressing his hips down until he is fully seated on the throbbing shaft.

 

“I love you,” Steve is the one whimpering now, as Bucky’s hole clamps down like a vice, drawing him in and pushing him out simultaneously. “I love you so much, Buck. I want to see my babies growing in you. I want to mate you until there’s nothing left of either of us.”

 

Bucky’s heart flies up into his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears so loud that it drowns out the sound of his own muffled cries. He goes forward, somehow--his knees hitting the carpet, palms spreading out as he presents, giving every angle to Steve’s relentless thrusts. He is covered in his own fluid--it runs down his legs and gushes out of his hole even as Steve shoves deeper inside, the knot pulsating at the hilt of his cock and threatening to expand. Steve covers him--his arms over Bucky’s, his legs over Bucky’s legs, wrapping himself like a protective shield around his omega. Of course he would give Steve pups. He would give Steve the world. But…

 

Steve’s cock hits the place inside of him where all thought disappears. Bucky’s mouth hangs stupidly open, his hair damp and sticking to his sweat-soaked skin as planets collide behind his eyes. . “F-fuck! Steve…!” Seconds later, Steve is convulsing behind him, his thrusts turning into pathetic twitches as his knot inflates and hot seed rushes out. Bucky is filled to burst, his belly rounded with a slight bulge as Steve’s come fills his walls and every imaginable corner of him. He struggles to keep his chin off the floor while Steve slumps over him.

 

Steve’s lungs scrape for air, his body jerking involuntarily as every drop is milked out of him. He peppers Bucky’s glittering back with little kisses, one arm dropping around Bucky’s waist, holding him as he gently shifts to his side on the floor.

 

Long moments pass as their breathing returns to normal and Bucky drifts back into the room. The torrents of Bucky’s heat have subsided for a brief few minutes, long enough to catch a much-needed break before it starts again, and it feels like someone has put out a hundred cigarettes on his skin. Steve is smoothing back his matted hair from his forehead, his fingers slipping from Bucky’s mouth in a long trail of saliva as he nuzzles the nape of his neck.

 

It’s an hour before Steve’s knot subsides and they can peel themselves off the floor. The rug burns on Bucky’s knees have nearly faded by that time but the heat returns, stronger and more violent than before. He pulls away from his alpha and Steve lets out a sleepy whimper of protest before letting him go. Bucky stumbles into the bathroom, flicking on the light. He runs the cold water, splashing it all over his face and down his neck. He examines the light pink bite marks on his throat and smiles softly, touching them almost reverently. He swings the cabinet door open and stares down at the small orange bottle, and for a minute his eyes lose their shimmer.

 

He tears the bottle open and the cap flies off with a loud POP. Before he can give himself too much time to think about it, he dumps the contents down the toilet and flushes, watching them with satisfied resolve as they swirl down the drain and out of his life.

 

He hops into bed after throwing on a pair of loose-fitting shorts (not that he’ll be needing them for long anyway.) Steve eyes him quizzically with a grin, one eyebrow disappearing into his bangs. “You look ridiculously happy,” he mumbles cautiously.

 

“I _am_ ridiculously happy.” Bucky settles into the crook of Steve’s arm, throwing a light sheet over them and resting his head contentedly on Steve’s chest.

 

Steve chuckles. “Wanna tell me what this is about?”

 

“I tossed ‘em,” states with a smile. “The pills, Stevie. I tossed them.”

 

Steve’s breath hitches a little, his eyes sparking suddenly with new life. “Bucky...you...you mean…?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “Well, yeah, I mean...If you think you can handle the task.”

 

Before he knows it, his face is being gathered up into those wide, soft hands, and Steve kisses him like his life depends on it in between soft hiccups and warm, wet tears. “Buck, god yes baby. I have waited so long…”

 

It sends an uncontrollable shiver down Bucky’s spine. He lets out a shaky breath and gathers Steve into his arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck, nibbling gently at the scent gland that overwhelms his every sense. His alpha is pleased. Steve, his Steve, is happy.

 

Happy.

 

The next morning, it’s Rumlow that makes it to the kitchen first. Bucky follows the musky, titillating smell down the hallway and sighs in relief when he sees that at least he is fully dressed, this time. Fresh pink bite-marks peek out of his tee shirt around his neck and collarbone, and Bucky self-consciously rubs at his own love-marks. His stomach is still fluttering, full and happy with Steve’s seed, but still somewhat pulsating due to the heat. It’s involuntary, and it will probably last a week or more, unless…

 

Rumlow rummages through the fridge, producing a wrapped package of what has to be the bloodiest hunk of raw meat Bucky has ever seen. His eyebrows disappear into his thick brown bangs and his jaw drops as Rumlow reaches in and wraps a fist around the bright red shreds, devouring the entire package in a few hurdling gulps. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Everything okay?”

 

Rumlow smears a hand across his mouth, streaking the dye and the blood and Bucky can smell it. He smells everything right now. His eyes drift down to the bulge in Brock’s sweatpants and the patch of wetness darkening the protrusion there. As if he feels him watching, Brock lets out a soft, nervous laugh. It’s only then that Bucky realizes he hasn’t bothered to meet him in the eyes. “Yeah, kid. S-sure.”

 

It suddenly dawns on him; even though it has been ages, Rumlow is his former mate, and as Bucky recalls, he was constantly being thrown into rut whenever Bucky’s heat approached. He must still share that connection. Bucky is suddenly very aware of the scent that he must be throwing out. He claps a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze drifting into the distance. “Oh. Sorry…”

 

“No, it’s--” Rumlow’s hands go up excusedly, still oozing with fresh red fluid. “It’s me, sweetheart. That’s all.” There is a pink tinge to his face, but his expression is one of complacency, not embarrassment. It must be the rut, making his blood boil up over the surface. His eyes are still firmly planted on the floor as he runs the tap water ice-cold and washes his hands and face. Bucky watches the blood swirl down the drain.

 

“If...if this won’t work. I mean, if you need you, you and Boomer can find a place of your own.”

 

Rumlow scrubs at a clean spot on the sink with the wet dish rag. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.”

 

Bucky’s heart flutters a little with every flex of his biceps, watching the chiseled muscle quivering underneath tan flesh. Something sweet stings deep inside of him, and he clutches his stomach even as the slight pressure from Steve’s come does nothing to sate the heat. “I’m just saying, Rum. If you guys need to. I mean, if us being this close--”

 

“I gotta take off,” he blurts out, grabbing up his keys and heading straight for the door. It slams seconds later and Bucky sighs, staring out into the emptiness.

 

“Daddy?” Boomer emerges moments later, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes and stretching with his hands balled into fists in front of his face just like he used to do when he was little.

 

Bucky smiles softly. “Hey, sweets.”

 

His red-headed son slides into the barstool beside him with a yawn and smooshes his face against his Dad’s metal shoulder. He used to do this too: Bucky recalls the many countless times Boomer would fall asleep on him and wake up to an imprint of a star on his cheek. “MMmm….You smell good.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Apparently.” He reaches across the counter for a mug and tries not to move Boomer too much as he pours his coffee.

 

“You and Dad need to be quieter,” he mumurs.

 

Bucky’s face goes strobe-light red. “Wh-you heard us last night?”

 

“Well, yeah. It wasn’t so much the muffled screaming as it was the bedpost pounding against the wall.”

 

Bucky lets out a dry cough. “Oh. god. Sorry.”

 

Boomer shrugs. “It was kinda fun in a way. Uncle Rum tried to match Dad’s rythm and…” His face flushes. Bucky has to admit, this is one conversation that he has not prepared himself for.

 

“Did he hurt you?”

 

Boomer smiles guiltily. “Only in a good way.”

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have tossed those pills,” Bucky mutters into his coffee.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” He kisses the top of his head, drawing his arm around his shoulders for a tight squeeze. “Are you happy, Bailey?” The tone of his voice has dropped the nonchalant facade in exchange for quiet concern. He absentmindedly sweeps a tendril of blood-red hair from his eyes.

 

“Incredibly,” Boomer half purrs, leaning into his touch. “I’m so in love with that guy. Just...don’t tell _him_ that, yeah? I wanna keep him on his feet.” He flashes his Dad a mischievous grin. “At least for a little while longer.”

 

A contented smile tugs at the side of Bucky’s mouth as he nuzzles in closer. “Oh, not to worry. It’ll be our little secret.”  

 

* * * * *

 

“And they say _I’m_ the one that’s crazy.” Rumlow had barely been able to wedge the door open far enough to squeeze through for all the debris. Now, he stands in the midst of a warzone; the walls have been stripped bare and peppered with fist-size holes, drywall coming down in clumps and scattered across the floor. Tables are overturned-the faces of happy children and soccer trophies lay shattered--the glass crunches under his heavy rubber boots with every step. The lamp that used to hang over the breakfast table has been torn out by the guts and scattered in a trail of metal parts and electrical wires all the way into the living room.

 

The only piece of furniture not tipped over or burst into a million little splinters is the gray love seat--now pulled out from its corner and placed in the direct middle of the room, a heavy hulk of a body sits on it with his back to Rumlow. “What are you doing here?” His voice is raspy and hoarse--no doubt the remnant of several rage-filled breakdowns. “Christ, you smell like shit.”  

 

Rumlow shrugs and side-steps a dilapidated stroller. “I think I got a rut coming on,” he grumbles absentmindedly. “Look, you haven’t reported for duty in two days, so I just thought…” His voice trails off. He tips the coffee table across from the sofa back onto its feet and perches on the edge of it. Like a coach on the field with an emotionally unstable player, he rests his elbows on his knees and lets out a stiff sigh, clasping his hands in front of himself. His brown/black eyes drift up to Rollins’, who stares off into the near distance. He has a sinking feeling he already knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask, but...“What happened, Jack?”

 

Jack is still refusing to meet Rumlow’s searching eyes. His adam’s apple bobs sharply as a dry sob catches in his throat. His usually icy stare is rimmed with red as he clutches a scrap of paper between white knuckles.

 

“Gimme that.” Rumlow tears it from his grasp, uncurling the wadded up note.

 

As his eyes skim over it, Jack whispers, “He took him. He took--Brock, he took the kids. He took all of them.”

 

“What the f--” Rumlow jerks upward, clamping a solid hand on Jack’s shoulder as if to shake him awake. “When?!”

 

“Two days. I think. I don’t know. Could be longer.”

 

“This...Bicen. The same bastard that took Boomer?”

 

Jack nods. “The same one I delivered him to.”

 

Rumlow bristles a little at this--the painful reminder at what his mate had gone through, what he must have endured just to be some bargaining chip for Rollins’ kids. He stops himself from going down that path, because it inevitably would lead to him reaming Jack’s ass and that wouldn’t be helping him or Sasha or anybody, even if he _did_ deserve every word. “It doesn’t make much difference, I guess,” he thinks aloud.

 

Jack’s eyes flare. “What?”

 

“It just makes the Mission even more pertinent,” he explains. “Ya see, Boomer’s got a plan. And we’re going to need all the help we can get if we’re going to rescue ‘em.”

 

Rollins is clearly backpedaling, his anguished mind reeling to keep up with all the new intel. “I-I don’t understand.”

 

“The _omegas,_ dumbass. The ones from the breeding program. Ones like Sasha and what they were going to turn Boomer into. Lucky for you, the kid has apparently inherited the Captain’s bleeding heart because he plans on going in balls-deep and destroying the Program from the inside.”

 

Rollins lets out a diminished chuckle, sliding his gaze up to Rumlow’s and softly shaking his head. “He’s in over his head. I don’t know how wide the net is cast, none of us do. He can’t--”

 

Rumlow lunges for Rollins’ throat, balling the thin material of his tee shirt into a tight fist under his chin, dragging the larger man forward. “Listen here, you mopey, ignorant _fuck!_ While your Baby Daddy is out there gettin’ his ass pounded by another alpha, a little Shield student--a lowly _omega_ \--is willing to risk life and limb getting him back for your ungrateful ass! So are you gonna Alpha-up, or what?”

 

Jack sets his jaw so hard Rumlow can hear his teeth grinding. He waits for the windup, legitimately expecting a massive fist to come flying across his face at any moment. He is pleasantly surprised when Jack nods sharply instead, rising off the couch suddenly and taking Rumlow with him. He looks down at his Superior with steeled resolve. “What do you need me to do.”

 

* * * * *

 

“ALRIGHT, listen up ya pussy omegas!!!”

 

Kitty stares down Boomer, who addresses the small gathering of Shield students, her eyes narrowing. “Ya know you’re the only omega here, right?”

 

“ _Of course I do_!,” Boomer growls under his breath while trying to maintain his menacing aplomb. “I’m using it as ironic terminology for degradation purposes! It’s a valid form of intimidation! You know? Shield Agent Handbook, section 12, paragraph 4, parts 18 and 19?”

 

“Well you sound like an idiot.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flash wide and white as saucers. “Well YOU’RE a---y---you---never mind!” He plants his fists on either hip, turning back to the cluster of students, all of whom have started grinning and chuckling among themselves. “As I was saying--ROPES COURSE! For our assignment we were all asked to develop what we’d consider our ultimate training regimen, so here’s mine and I expect it to be followed to the “Tee”! That means, you, Gorskyn. It’ll work on that lower arm flab you’ve got going on.”

 

Gorskyn’s hackles prickle at this, and the fellow alphas launch into a roaring sea of taunts.

 

Boomer blows the whistle around his neck, and the students take off in a line, marching towards the start of Boomer’s custom setup. He grins at Kitty, who frowns at the retreating troupe. “That means you, cupcake.”

 

“Can it, Barnes,” she harrumphs before turning reluctantly to trot off after her classmates.

 

“A natural born leader, aren’t ya?” Rumlow is next, sidling up to his omega to gently chuck him under the chin.

 

Boomer flashes him a triumphant grin. “You bet your ass I am.” He watches with folded arms as the all-alpha team struggles and jumbles their way through the web of ropes. He shakes his head slowly, his expression reflecting that of disappointment with a dash of amusement. “What is it with you alphas? Each and every one of you is convinced that you’re the best, yet you all _suck so hard._ ”

 

Rumlow shrugs, turning to whisper low in Boomer’s ear, “Funny, you weren’t complaining about that last night.”

 

Boomer lets out a startled laugh as a his face turns red. “You’re going to regret that remark.”

 

“That a promise?” Boomer doesn’t bother trying one-up any of Rumlow’s comebacks. He’ll never be able to out-douchebag the Master.

 

His blue-green eyes shimmer with mischief as he takes off, easily catching up to his classmates and using his compact, muscular body to easily scale the intricate obstacle course. The little shit even uses his fellow students as a launching pad, jumping from back to back like a spider-monkey as he flies through it.

 

There is a small building located between Shield Academy and the Science Headquarters. It is used mostly as a weight room and an additional gymnasium, should they need the extra room for sparring. It is also the only place without cameras, not that they’d be too much of a problem for Noa to hack into, but the less collateral damage the better at this point. None of them know how far Hydra’s tentacles reach, and it’s anybody’s guess who all is involved in the breeding program.

 

It’s the perfect place to host the Nerv center for the Mission. Noa slips in after his shift at W.I.R.E., meeting the other operatives gathered there. Boomer has the schematics set, with Rollins supplying the layout of the compound (though Boomer feels pretty confident, seeing as he’s already become acquainted with a portion of the inside). Rollins slinks in, a tall shadow behind Rumlow’s firmly planted form. Gone is usual swagger, replaced with shifty eyes and a demure, tilted gaze.

 

Boomer sets his jaw as the sinking sensation creeps back into his gut, eyes locked on the tall man. His neck feels a thousand times lighter without the steel cage around it, but the memory of the cold collar and thick leather restraints ghost over his skin, sending a shiver through him.

 

Rollins drops his mouth open--as if to say something. His eyes are filled with hurt and guilt and regret, and they fucking _should_ be. “Bailey…” His voice nears a whisper. Rumlow tosses a look behind him, his own expression one of patient superiority. “I’m...I don’t know what to say.”

 

Boomer’s eyes slam back to the makeshift map splayed out in front of him. “Yeah, well Rumlow filled me in on what happened, so... don’t say anything yet. Not till we get him back.”

 

Rollins gives him a dutiful nod.

 

Noa drops his briefcase, flipping it open to reveal a smooth gray laptop that simultaneously looks eons old and freshly space-aged. Boomer watches the glowing reflection in Noa’s eyes as the screen powers up into a bright blue.”So I  was able to replicate Rollins ‘ dinner invite with relative ease. The next step was pretty simple--hacking into Highland’s guest roster and inserting some  aliases.”

 

“So it sounds like we are set,  then.”

 

Noa chews on his lip as his eyes flash across the screen intently. “Not quite. We are going to need backup the outside in case things turn ugly. And then of course,  there is the issue of building a believable disguise.”

 

Rumlow pipes up. “That's easy. The dirt bags don't know who Leo, you or me are.”

 

“But they do know Boomer, “ Noa reminds him. “And chances are they will recognize a guy with flaming Red hair and a very distinctive beauty mark.”

 

“So,  what do you suggest.” Boomer grumbles.

 

“There are ghosting patches that will hide the beauty mark.” Noa lifts out a box of yellow hair color from his bag. “As for the hair... how do you feel about going blond again?”

 

Boomer chews on his lip and slides a slightly anxious look at Rumlow, whose blank stare is unreadable. “I...I guess. If it means more omegas won’t have to suffer, then, yeah.” Rumlow’s expression slides into a look of pride and he does a slow nod. Boomer smiles back.

 

“Now, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, here, Boom…” Noa slides his laptop shut and glances up at his good friend. “But you know that what we will be doing is against Shield’s Code of Ethics.”

 

Boomer’s brow furrows. “Of course I do. Shield Agent Handbook, chapter 8, section 4: ‘An agent will not interfere with civilian-based institutions that are operating within local and federal laws unless otherwise authorized.”

 

Noa’s face falls a little. “Then, Boomer. You know what we’re about to do is illegal. And really, really dangerous.”

 

“My Dad taught me a long time ago that there’s a big difference between what’s legal and what’s right.” Boomer clamps a firm hand on his shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “And hey. It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. And neither will Leo.”

 

From a corner of the room, arms folded across his chest, Leo nods in agreement.

 

“And neither will I.” The door creeks open as a metal-armed assassin makes his presence known.

 

Boomer’s eyes fly open. “Dad!??” He flashes an accusing look at Rumlow. Rumlow shrugs as he shares his omega’s same look of surprise. “Dad, what are you--?!”

 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “When are you going to learn, kiddo?” He strides further into the room, flashing dangerous looks at the alphas. By his scent, he is still deep in the throes of his heat. He doesn’t look the best--Boomer can’t remember a time when he’d seen his Daddy looking so pale. “You don’t think I’ve been expecting this?”

 

Boomer scrambles for a good excuse, or at least a compelling reason why it *has* to be him, why they *have* to go through with this. He drops his mouth open hoping words will follow, but Bucky lands a hand on his son’s cheek and smiles softly.

 

“It’s okay.” He gives him an affirming nod before striding on past the other wide eyes in the room and glancing down at the makeshift map unfurled on the desk. “You need to do this. Get as many of those omegas out as you can. But you’re going to need more backup than you’ve got.” He glances over his shoulder to flash a distrusting look at Rollins. “And I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

 

Boomer stands up straight, the added resolve of his father making him seem just a little taller. “The Dinner is tomorrow night. We’ll have to report at 1800 hours.”

 

“You and Leo and Noa figure out what you need to hack the system,” Bucky continues. “I’ll handle recon. But first, I’ll need to make a few phone calls.”

 

“Hey, D-daddy..?” Boomer starts.

 

“Don’t worry about him,” Bucky offers gently. “I doubt your father would allow it, so I don’t see the point in telling him. But if you ever decide to go off and play ‘hero’ without letting me know first--”

 

He doesn’t have to finish the warning before Boomer is vehemently nodding his head. “Yes, sir. I understand. Won’t happen again.”

 

Bucky nods dutifully and Boomer returns it--a silent deal struck between father and son.

 

There is a light cough behind them. “‘Scuse me,” Rumlow growls out and Boomer turns to watch his back as he leaves. He frowns a little, casting a questioning glance at his Dad.

 

Bucky purses his lips, puts a hand on the outline on the table, and shakes his head gently. “I’ll go talk to him.”

 

* * * * *

 

That damn bridge.

 

It seems the most pivotal moments of their lives has played out right here. For some otherworldly reason, it just seems like the place Brock needs to be right now.

 

It’s not that he's nervous. Nah. Tomorrow will take care of itself, just like it's always done. A few hoidy-toidy rich assholes in black monkey suits is the least of his problems right now.

 

He doesn't want to admit it. Knows he can't really escape it. He's never fully been able to get him off his mind. He flicks away the ash on his cigarette,  watching it swirl out into the open air above the towering dam.

 

It's so fucking unfair. Not to him, but to the kid. Bucky’s heat has gone and thrown him into a rut and suddenly all those nasty/dirty thoughts that he's done a damn good job of keeping back all these years have come careening down. As if he hasn’t had his cock buried root-deep in the omega of his dreams for the past week. As if he’s been burning without release for a goddamn decade.

 

He rolls his head back slowly, revelling in the crunch of bone that results. He tries desperately to ignore the throbbing pulse between his legs and the cumbersome bulge that results. Any attempt to get himself off has failed miserably--his dick just will *not* cooperate. The closer he gets to climax, the more his knot swells, choking off the channel and locking his seed inside. Mother-Nature’s sadistic way of punishing him for not nutting while balls-deep inside a writhing, fertile omega.

 

And Boomer’s going to be completely obsessed about the mission from here until it’s done. Besides (and Rumlow takes another long drag at this thought) he’s not about to have sex with the guy he loves just because he can’t stop thinking about someone else. Especially when that “someone else” is his Dad.

 

He lets the smoke roll out slowly, watching it dance in white wisps across his nose and disappear into the chilly air.

 

“Why did you leave?”

 

The cigarettes also help to mask the overwhelming scent of omega-in-heat. Brock lifts his head slowly, sliding his brown/black eyes to the corner of his vision as Bucky approaches.

 

He’s wearing one of Steve’s jackets--the black bomber with the brown sleeves. Not something Bucky usually does, but being surrounded by his alpha’s scent helps calm his nerves and suppress the heat. Rumlow remembers being on missions and tossing his S.t.r.i.k.e. Jacket around Bucky and cradling him on the plane ride back to base because he is the Goddamn Winter Soldier and he would fight through the heat no matter what and then collapse as soon as the mission was over. He remembers holding him tight--back when he was Winter--as he sobbed against Rumlow’s chest and begged for the kind of relief that only Rumlow could give. That was years ago. Back when they were….

 

Brock’s nose wrinkles as Steve’s scent assaults the air around them, the wind blowing just right. It pulls a guttural growl from deep within his chest and causes the fine hairs along his spine to stand up pin-straight. He jams his head back down, casting his gaze down the long ravine and grinding the stub of his cigarette into the paint-chipped guard rail. He flicks it into the drain, watching it spiral down into oblivion. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I…” Bucky flicks his wet tongue over his lips, taking a solid step forward. “I know that. But we were in the middle of making plans for the mission--a mission that is going to require complete focus. We both need to get our heads in the game, here.”

 

“You think I don’t know that?” Rumlow scoffs, jamming his fist back into his pocket to search for another cigarette. A metal hand clamps around his wrist and wrenched it out. When he looks up, mouth dropped open and ready to deliver a sound warning to the impertinent omega, he finds Bucky’s mercurial eyes burning back into his.

 

“STOP IT!” Bucky gives his hand a good shake before the realization hits and he backs off slowly. He clears his throat, slamming his eyes to the gravel ground. “I...I know you love my son, and you know I love Steve. So...so exactly why is this happening?” Both hands fly up into his cinnamon hair, his angelic face twisted in pain, eyes rimmed with wetness and threatening to spill over.

 

“You know why,” Brock lets out softly. It is peeled from his chest without so much as a pang of hesitation. Saying the unspoken. “You know we love each other, too.”

 

Bucky falters back against the guardrail as if the words have hit him head-on like a freight train. “Don’t. Please. Don’t say that.”

 

A bitter grin spreads across Brock’s face as he swipes his thumb across Bucky’s cheek. His heart is pounding right out of his chest--he is touching his Winter, again. His Bucky. HIs everything. “You know, the day you came and told me you were carrying...I was so fucking thrilled.  I mean, all those times in Hydra...all those times we tried...and here you were, gonna have Cap’s babies and I was so fucking... _proud,_ you know? Almost as if _I_ was the Daddy. Almost like I got another chance. To watch you grow. To watch you blossom with six or seven little squirming pups inside?”

 

“Six or seven?,” Bucky laughs through his tears.

 

“Oh _at least,”_ Brock insists. “I...remember seeing them, you know? Our pups. I would watch them on the monitor, kicking and moving, before…” His gaze falls away with his voice.

 

“I know. I remember those times, too.”

 

For just a split-second, Brock sees the reflection of their children dancing in his eyes--ghosts, now, distant memories of what might have been.

 

Rumlow smells Bucky’s estrus and it’s his exact perfect brand of crack. He knows that Bucky has to be absolutely soaked in those tight jeans, sweat dampening every fold of fabric, just as sweat is glistening on the edges of Bucky’s brow. He sweeps his hand underneath Bucky’s head and his feather-soft hair flutters against Brock’s cheek and sends lightning coursing down both legs.

 

Bucky’s mouth parts and Brock gets a peek inside that pink, wet orifice. “Rumlow, th-that wasn’t an inva--”

 

A hand around the small of his back renders a pathetic whimper as Rumlow crushes his mouth against Bucky’s, instantaneously bringing their hips into alignment with each other. He seizes up for a quick second at the flash of Bucky’s metal hand, but lets out a groan when it comes to rest against his bicep, drawing him in further. “Fuck…”

 

A gust of wind breaks through all layers of his clothes as he is shoved suddenly away, the primal need within him tearing a roar from his chest.

 

“No,” Bucky murmurs, keeping Rumlow at bay with one arm as he wipes his mouth with the other. He is shaking visibly now, pallid and sweating as if a single touch of Brock’s finger could completely crumble him.

 

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Brock can’t busy himself with the consequences. Neither he nor Bucky will be doing anyone a damn bit of good on the Mission if they are distracted by each other’s scent, which is something that a mating could stave off for a while, or at least lessen. “Hurts, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

 

Bucky lets Brock touch him again, and he lets out a pathetic whimper.

 

Rumlow drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “I’m...I’m gonna make it, better. Okay, baby??”

 

“Rumlow--” Bucky is panting, now, shaking and desperate and far too weak to push away a second time. His feet drag across the ground as Brock holds him up, in the circle of his arms.

 

“Such a good boy,” Brock cooes. Just like he used to when Bucky was his. He runs his tongue around the rim of Bucky’s ear, nuzzling his neck and balking at the scent mark that reeks of Steve and Bucky and their _fucking_.

 

Somehow, they make it to his truck. It smells of Steve, too, and Rumlow would be lying if he said it didn’t make him grin just the slightest little bit to think about messing up the interior of Cap’s precious blue Chevy. He backs Bucky up into the side with a BANG, attacking his mouth as Bucky fumbles for the keys. He finds them and spends the next several seconds jamming it in while Rumlow hurriedly works off Bucky’s jeans.

 

His rough hands run over the subtle bulge in Bucky’s belly, stifling a dark chuckle. “Christ, so _that’s_ what that noise was all last night. Cap filled you up good and proper didn’t he?”

 

Bucky lets out a jerks his hips upward, simultaneously hoisting his long legs into the truck and jamming his pant-legs down around his knees. Brock scrambles up after, slamming the door and it’s quiet and warm inside, away from the wind and the icy open air of the dam. Bucky has already flipped himself onto his back, drained of any sense or personality, completely given to his omega-ness, his urge to be bred. Maybe if Brock wasn’t sporting a goddamn eggplant in his trousers he might feel guilty for thinking about how good Bucky looks that way; the big, legendary badass Bucky Barnes flat on his stomach, legs spread, round, perfect ass pointed straight up to the sky as he whimpers pathetically to be fed a meaty, throbbing cock.

 

His shallow panting causes his cum-filled belly to ebb with every breath, and Brock barely gets the waistband of his fatigues down before his cock starts drooling with precome. He springs forward, hard and ready, absentmindedly drawing little circles in the slick that’s spattered around Bucky’s asscheek.

 

“Your big, blond vanilla teddy-bear couldn’t satisfy you, could he? Nope. Left you needin’. Well, I won’t do that, sweetheart.” He digs a thumb into the weeping entrance and Bucky’s head flies back, his lungs tearing for air followed by a choked cry. His hole flutters at the touch as his flesh-and-metal fingers scrape along the leather upholstery, searching for purchase, his own aching dick jammed deep into the rawhide covering. “See, that’s what he don’t get about you, baby-doll. You always had a thing for black _licorice_.”

 

He thrusts in on that word. His knot is already swollen at the base of his cock and threatening to expand. Bucky is as tight as he remembers, maybe even tighter. The familiar smell of their scents mingle in the air and choke out all other fragrance,  and Bucky’s heat-addled mewls and the soft slap of skin-on-skin downs out all other sound. He drives further in, repositioning his head deep inside. Bucky is slippery with his natural fluid and hot with Steve’s come, and there is something about the idea of blowing his load into _Steve’s_ baby juice that makes him let out a triumphant growl.

 

He remembers. He remembers, and the funny thing is, nothing much has changed. It feels good, so fucking _good_ \--like Rumlow’s been holding his breath and for the first time in years--in _years_ \-- he can finally breathe. He strokes Bucky’s thighs in slow, rhythmic circles as he picks up the pace and soon Bucky’s cries are matching Rumlow’s every time he slams into him.

 

Rumlow doesn’t last long and that’s okay. Bucky needs his knot, needs to feel it filling him and pressing against his walls as it milks out every drop. Bucky is already too far gone to feel anything, his eyes rolled up into the back of his brain like a possessed fuckdoll, sweat cascading down his back.

 

But Rumlow is pretty sure he hasn’t come this hard or this much in a long time. When his climax hits, it hits hard, making his heart jump five miles out of his chest and causing an explosion of the sweetest kind where every thread and fiber of his being is pulled taught like a marionette. He feels himself being emptied out into Bucky, feels Bucky’s greedy hole trying desperately to bring him impossibly further in as it wrings out every last drop. Brock can’t see anything, and it takes him a minute to realize that it’s because his eyes are shut so goddamn tight everything is black. When his eyes finally do flutter open, it’s because his knot has inflated almost painfully, trapping him inside of Bucky’s merciless channel as it spasms involuntarily, milking his cock. A thick stream spurts out, and Rumlow can’t help but reach around to feel Bucky’s growing belly.

 

“Jesus-fuck…” he breathes. Bucky is swollen with come. “Christ, baby...you are so fucking gorgeous like this. You feel amazing.”

 

“Mmmmhh…” Somewhere in the intensity of things, Bucky has come too, and now he’s slicked with stick fluid in the front as well as the back. Bucky’s head lolls back as Rumlow sweeps away a streak of sweat to plant a kiss on his temple. In a bit, Bucky will return to Earth and there will be hell to pay, so Brock decides to make the most of the moment. He shifts gently, bringing their hips together as he spoons him, cradling him in the circle of his arms.

 

“Been so long,” he murmurs, absent-mindedly drawing circles on Bucky’s biceps. Goosebumps alight wherever Brock’s fingers land.

 

Long minutes pass before either one of them speak again. The sun is beginning its descent into the thick trees of the woods bordering the dam, and the night air drifts in through the slivers of the open windows. “Fuck,” Bucky whispers finally as he drags himself back into consciousness. He drags a hand across his face and stares at the floorboards.

 

Rumlow’s hand drops from his shoulder to Bucky’s waist, but he shoves it away. “Buck? Hey…”

 

“Don’t.”

 

There’s a strange feeling sinking in, seeping through Rumlow’s bones and settling heavy into his stomach. It makes his knot retract a little, and he pulls away as much as he dares. The feeling continues though, which tells him it’s not a post-coital effect. It stirs in his lower intestines and forms a big lump in his throat.

 

It takes another long ten minutes before they are finally able to separate, both retreating to opposite sides of the truck to hastily toss their clothes back on. Bucky keeps his eyes on that floor when Rumlow glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His hands are shaking.

 

The high beep of a phone going off causes them both to jump nearly out of their seats, and Bucky fumbles for Steve’s discarded jacket. “Yeah,” he answers, his voice nearly a whisper.

 

“Hey Buck. Just wondering where you’re at.”

 

Rumlow can hear the concern in Steve’s voice on the other end of the line.

 

There goes Bucky’s hand again, flying up into his damp mess of hair, staring out the window at the growing darkness. “I...I was out at the Academy helping Boomer with a project.”

 

“Ah.” There is a small a pause. “Well Boomer is saying Rumlow disappeared, too. We were just sort of wondering when you wanted dinner tonight. You sure everything’s alright?”

 

The feeling grows worse, expanding deep into Rumlow’s insides and burrowing down until he swears he can feel it gnawing away at his brain.

 

“I’m coming home now.” Bucky chews on the inside of his lip before answering the last thing Steve says. “Love you, too.”

 

Rumlow shakes his head slowly, clarity beginning to cut through the rut-induced fog of his mind. He throws open the truck door when Bucky shuts off the phone, turning up his collar against the growing wind. The engine rumbles as Bucky turns the engine over behind him and disappears over the hill. He digs in his pocket for his last cigarette, lighting it with unsteady hands.

 

He returns to the bridge, taking a long drag as he leans against the guard rail, staring out over the abyss until it’s too dark to see the bottom.  


	12. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boomer shoves his perfectly manicured hands into his stiffly pressed pockets, reluctantly following his Dad into the spot in question. “Look, Daddy,” he starts in with a heavy sigh. “I get that you are in heat and that Uncle Rum took advantage. I just don’t want to think about that right now, okay. Please let me focus on this stupid mission. I’m not in the mood for a long, drawn out, father-son-talk and----”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is as sappy as they come. I wanted to write more, but I loved where this was going and I just have to share with your guys because this one starts out super super sad and ends on a very, very positive note. <3

“What did you do to your hair?!” Steve’s heart skips a beat when his son and Noa round the corner from the bathroom hall, wet and giggling. Bright blond streaks peek out from under a fluffy gray towel and it’s as if he’s being transported through time again--this time, backwards--to the days of a skinny blond kid romping through the house with his black-haired best friend.

 

Boomer yanks the towel off, his freshly dyed hair falling in wet ringlets in front of his eyes, grinning like the devil. “What’dya think, Dad?”

 

Noa lets out a satisfactory “humpf” as he works his fingers through the matted mess in the back, inspecting his work.

 

Steve scrubs the back of his neck, getting himself wet with the dishwater he’s in the process of using, and shakes his head to clear the surprise off his face. He replaces it with a genuine smile. “Looks great, Bail. I wonder what your Daddy’s gonna think…” He bites his lip a little at the mention of his husband, who for some reason or another has gone AWOL.  

 

“Eh.” Boomer shrugs. “I don’t think he’s going to be half as surprised as you are.”

 

He turns his head, and Steve just about falls flat on his face in the pile of sudsy dishes. “WHAT did you do to your _face_?!”

 

Steve was so proud the day he held his newborn baby for the first time. He couldn’t have cared less what he came out looking like, but he was absolutely thrilled at the adorable little auburn mole on the side of his son’s nose that graced a light peppering of freckles. “Hmm?” Boomer looks up, touching the bare spot where the beauty mark used to be. “Oh! Noa wanted me to try out some new Shield tech. It’s called a Masking Patch!” He peels off a seemingly invisible layer, lifting it away with his thumbnail. It changes into a round dot of bright green, revealing the mole underneath. “Pretty cool, right?”

 

“I guess,” Steve grumbles, sticking his head back down into the dishes. “But you better take that off before Daddy gets home, because you will give him an aneurism with that thing.”

 

Boomer turns to Noa, rubbing his fingers into the curly mass on top of his head. “Maybe we should do something with this. What do you think?”

 

“You guys going to a dance or something?”

 

Boomer rolls his eyes and suddenly Steve feels centuries old. Well, he supposes, he _is_ centuries old. So there is that. Every now and then, he’s reminded of it. Doesn’t help that he officially lost his Cool Factor when Boomer presented as an Omega. They used to be such close buddies. But, especially lately...Steve feels so out of the loop, In the dark. “Yeah Dad. Something like that.”

 

Steve knows that tone. His watchful eye follows as the boys prance back down the hall the way they came, to Boomer’s room, going on about different types of hair gel. The door shuts soundly behind them. He shakes his head and finishes the task at hand.

 

Minutes later, just as he’s reaching for his phone, the front door slides open. Bucky is soaked to the bone. It must have started raining on his way back from the Academy, but then the scintillating smell of his heat drifts in and underneath Steve’s nostrils and suddenly he is very grateful the boys are in the back room. “Hey, Buck.” A smile slides across his face as he closes the distance between them, reaching his arms out for their customary ‘honey-I’m-home’ hug.

 

“Mmmh.” Bucky’s hand stops the advance, pushing Steve backwards on his heels.

 

Steve’s heart flutters. Bucky is drenched in sweat, his mercurial eyes jammed downward into the carpet, his hair hanging in damp tendrils in front of them. “Wh-what’s wrong?”

 

He reeks. The pungent odor hangs around him, off of him, the scent of a rival alpha that claimed his territory long ago. Steve takes a step back, blowing out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, and searches Bucky’s distant gaze, asking questions he knows he doesn’t want the answers to.

 

Bucky takes a long swallow, his metal hand half-hidden behind him, still poised on the handle of the door. His voice is hoarse and barely above a whisper when he murmurs, “I should go.”

 

“Bucky.” Steve goes into the Captain America voice almost by accident--the deep, soft, commanding one that immediately captivates the ears of all who hear it. He reaches out, placing a wide hand on his husband’s pallid cheek, It only takes him an instant to draw the obvious, torturous conclusion. “Did…” The word sticks in Steve’s throat, suddenly parched like a desert. He clears his throat and tries again, asking the only question that matters. “Did he hurt you?”

 

There is a small explosion in Bucky’s eyes, the tears that glitter around the waterline spill out suddenly, like a dam bursting wide open. He sinks against the door, as it locks into place, flattening his shoulders to the solid oak trim, gripping tight to the wall with both hands as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “No.”, he whispers.

 

Steve pushes the torrent of emotions down, way down deep, because the only thing keeping him from tearing the door off its hinges to hunt down Rumlow and slowly tear his weak spine from his greasy back is Bucky--it’s always been Bucky. HIS Bucky. Not Brock’s, not Shield’s, not fucking _Hydra’s_ \---HIS Bucky.

 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Steve gathers Bucky’s limp form into his arms, drawing him into himself, flattening him to his chest and rocking him gently as the tears roll down.

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?!,” Bucky spits. He is suddenly fighting back, jamming his fists into Steve’s ribs and trying in desperation to tear them apart.

 

“Sssh,” Steve soothes, only bringing him impossibly closer, so close they both lose their ability to breathe. “This is my fault. I never should have let you go today. I knew you were in heat and hurting. I never should have let you leave.”

 

“I--I did this to you! It’s not you, It’s not him, Stevie. It’s--it’s _me!_ You can’t blame him without blaming me...and now, Boomer--!” Bucky’s choking on his sobs, balling Steve’s tee shirt into his fists and slamming his knuckles against his sides defeatedly. “Oh, god, Boomer is going to hate us both. He--he has a right to. What kind of father am I? I fucked his boyfriend.”

 

“Sssh…” Steve presses his chin down on Bucky’s feather-soft hair, stroking the damp curls away from his face, swaying with him in place, rocking him until the tears subside. “I will talk to him. He and I are going to go find Rumlow, and--”

 

Bucky jams backward, forcing himself effectively out of Steve’s arms, holding him away as his blue eyes burn into Steve’s. “NO! God, no, not now. Boomer can’t know.”

 

Steve searches Bucky’s frantic face, capturing it in his hands and forcing their eyes to meet. “Hey! It’s alright. I’m not going to let anything happen, okay? Well, that’s not entirely true. I might let him get a few good hits in, but--”

 

“NO! No you don’t understand! Boomer needs to be completely focused...for...for the…”

 

Steve thinks back to the hair dye and the masking patch, his eyes narrowing as it all comes into focus. “Bucky. What is Boomer planning.” It’s not a question. “This has something to do with his abduction, doesn’t it?”

 

“Steve--Steve, please, you can’t stop this. There are others hurting. Like Boomer. Like me. Omegas in that twisted-ass Breeding Program like the one that Rollins has and basically keeps as a pet.”

 

Steve’s calm expression slides into a dark grimace. “Those bastards.”

 

“There--there could be hundreds, if not thousands and….tomorrow night is our chance. I will be with him, okay Stevie? I won’t let anything happen to him. I swear. But just please … _please …_ don’t stop this.”

 

Steve lets out a slow breath, absentmindedly stroking back a loose strand of Bucky’s hair. He tucks his fingers underneath his chin, lifting Bucky’s tired, tear-stained eyes to his.”That will be up to Boomer, Buck. I am not about to let him go on a mission with a man that betrayed his...his _everything_...without him knowing. It’s not fair, sweetheart. I know it’s going to hurt, but the worst thing we could do at this point would be to hide more shit from each other.”

 

Bucky purses his lips a little, as if he’s not quite persuaded. “You’ll let _him_ decide.”

 

Steve nods. “Of course.”

 

Bucky looks away again before his eyes flicker back up, his expression melting into one of loss and fear. “What if he hates me?”

 

“Sweetheart, he is _your son._ We are family. It...it might not happen right away. But god, no, Buck. He’s not going to hate you.”

 

“....what if _you_ hate me?”

 

Steve draws him back in again with a ragged sigh, pressing his cheek against the top of his head. “I hate myself. I never should have…”

 

Bucky lets out sharp cry, clutching his stomach, going completely rigid in Steve’s arms.

 

“What is it?!”

 

“It’s...it’s starting up again. The estrus.”

 

“Okay, sweetie.” Steve plants a resolute kiss on his forehead and leads him further into their apartment, down the hall into the bathroom and flicking on the light. “I want you to take a good long shower, alright? Get cleaned up, relax a bit. Wait in bed for me, okay? I promise I won’t be long. Tonight I’m going to knot you so good it’ll put thirty pups in there, okay? We’re going to stop this, together.”

 

Bucky lets out a shaky laugh at the thought of it, giving Steve a quick nod.

 

“We’re going to go for a world record.” He can’t help the sly smile that breaks through, giving Bucky a rough, impassioned kiss before pushing him back towards the shower. “But rest, first, okay? Shower then rest.”

 

“Shower then rest,” Bucky repeats robotically. He begins stripping off the damp layers of clothes before Steve can close the door.

 

It’s after the latch clicks in place that the tears that have been threatening to spill out gush forward, each one streaking long and warm down his face. He presses his forehead to the door, willing himself to gather his resolve. He draws a shaking hand up to his face, wiping the wetness away with a vengeance, righteous anger boiling at the surface and threatening to explode.

 

When he reaches Boomer’s bedroom and tears the door open, the two boys on the bed look up in surprise, two half-dressed omegas with hair products and dress suits strewn around the room. “Dad!” Boomer glares at his father.

 

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, in a tone that says he’s really _not,_ “But we need to talk.”

 

Boomer’s expression drifts from annoyance to concern. “Wh-what’s going on? Is it Daddy?”

 

Steve shakes his head. “No, sweetie. Daddy’s okay. It’s--”

 

“Rumlow?!” Boomer launches off the bed, yanking his duffel bag up onto his shoulder and appearing in the doorway in a second flat, his newly dyed hair still clinging to his face. “Is--Dad, is he okay?”

 

“For now,” Steve mutters, biting the inside of his lip so hard it bleeds. “But he might not be when we find him.”

 

* * * * *

 

It’s been too long since Boomer’s let his fist fly across someone’s face. He misses the crack of bone-on-bone, the sting and the tear of flesh as his knuckles scathe the surface of connective tissue. The resulting fissure oozes blood immediately and it spatters like fresh red paint against the brick wall.

 

He’d been saving up. It was supposed to be a bad-guy that got it. Maybe a crooked con artist or that asshole scientist Bicen or a body guard that tried lunging for him as they made their escape from Hydra. It was supposed to be for glory and justice and all that shit he’s romanticized over since before he could even walk.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be for Rumlow.

 

He lets his fist fly again, only mildly surprised when it meets no resistance or attempts to block the shot. This one’s a little faster, even harder, and with a hell of a lot more feeling. “SON OF A BITCH.” Boomer hisses through the tears that are welling up in his eyes, drowning his vision in a sea of blue and gray colored stones, and in the middle, a lone, black-clad figure with a red-colored face.  

 

“Boom--” Rumlow’s voice is hoarse. He smells like shit. He smells like a hundred cigarettes and spunk and both his Dads and it causes the righteous rage to swell inside until his lungs are burning for air.

 

“DON’T.” Boomer holds up a hand as if to block out his words. “DON’T FUCKING DARE. YOU LYING, SCAMPY PIECE OF SHIT.”

 

His whole body is wracked with sobs, every limb shaking, every synapse firing, eyes wide and wet as tears threaten to spill down. Nothing of that compares to the tightness in his chest, all the pent-up rage and terror causing tremors that resound in his system as comical hiccups. He growls through them, making his pathetic state of uncontrollable wrath even worse.

 

 _HOW COULD YOU?_ He wants so badly to ask. The words linger on the end of his tongue, threatening to fly off at any moment but he knows damn well it won’t do him any good. He knows how Rumlow could. How could Rumlow _not_? He and his Daddy used to be a mated pair. They still react to each other’s biological calling card. The thought churns his in stomach, twisting tighter and tighter until Boomer ceases to be able to breathe.

 

He was never his Daddy. Maybe he should have tried, for Rumlow’s sake. Maybe he had fooled himself into thinking he could truly satisfy Brock and make him forget all about Bucky--even just for a little while. And here he was, all along, just a cheap, easy substitute.

 

Rumlow takes an uneasy step forward, whether it’s to steady himself or come closer to Boomer, he can’t tell. Boomer shifts away, throwing the arm that comes across his chest before Brock can touch him. “Bailey.” Rumlow’s voice cracks somewhere in between, his shivering hand hovering close to his side, fingers still outstretched.

 

He’s going to give him some excuse, or worse yet, say he’s sorry, neither of which Boomer is in the mood or mindset to hear. In fact, there isn’t one thing that Rumlow could say to make this better.

 

“You’re...you’re right.”

 

“Fuck you,” Boomer spits. “The only reason you’re still standing is because of him.” He throws his head Steve’s way. Behind him, Steve stands like a lighthouse, arms folded in front of his chest, a stoic expression on his face. It doesn’t matter if it’s not true. It doesn’t matter that Boomer is lying straight through his teeth and he doesn’t think he’d have the strength or the heart to throw another punch.

 

Brock massages his sore mouth, one side of which is already swelling up to twice its size. He lets out a muffled groan before his hand drops to his side. “Yeah, I know kid.” His eyes are a hazy brown in the dim light of the street lamp, as if all life has gone out of them. They meet Boomer’s for a half second before Boomer slams his eyes down to the concrete. The angle lets slip a small tear and Boomer growls involuntarily. “Let it out, sweetheart. Don’t you hold it back on my account.”

 

The issuing of those words--a statement from the man who is _still_ his alpha, with whom he has shared the mating mark with, the man who for years was his ultimate hero--brings forth a torrent of tears that Boomer hates himself for. He jams his hand into his pocket, retrieving a smooth, silver collar--the same collar that had been locked around his neck not days before. “Noa had an identical one made for himself. We meet at 1800 hours under the old train station tomorrow night. Come wearing a suit. Noa will gear you up then.”

 

He tosses the ring and Rumlow catches it, touching it almost reverently as he inspects it with his hand. He looks up at Boomer with questioning eyes.

 

“My scent mark’s getting faint. Sleep with that tonight and bring it with you to the rendezvous point and that should put enough scent on it to make us passable.”

 

Rumlow’s brow furrows. “Passable?”

 

Boomer shrugs as he turns away, jamming his hands deep in his pockets as he struts towards his Dad. “Yeah. As an actual couple. And lucky you, I get to be your shy, doting omega for once. Oh and Uncle Rum?”

 

Rumlow’s holding the metal ring so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “Yeah, Boom?”

 

His voice breaks a little as Steve’s big, wide hand curls protectively around his. “After tomorrow night, I never want to see you again.”  

 

A weak laugh tears out deep from within Rumlow’s chest. “Aww, come on, baby--don’t be like that--”

 

“NOT ANOTHER WORD.” Steve’s voice booms, commanding and authoritative in the small alleyway adjacent to Rumlow’s apartment. His thick arm curls around Boomer’s small shoulders as he pulls him into his side, effectively hiding his face from Rumlow’s view. They walk away, down the street, and barely get out of Rumlow’s view before Boomer crumbles into a heap, sobbing uncontrollably, Steve’s tight grasp the only thing keeping him from collapsing into a pile on the cold pavement.

 

He collects Boomer and deposits him into the passenger’s side of the car. “I got it, I got it.” Boomer tears the seat belt buckle out of Steve’s grasp, angrily scrubbing the tears from his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

 

Steve’s hand hesitates on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze and offering him a sad smile. “I’m so proud of you, Boom. You know that?”

 

Boomer slides his eyes away, watching the headlights of the cars as they roll by. “Whatever.”

 

The car door slides shut, and Boomer lets his head roll back to the seat, letting out a slow shaky breath as he closes his eyes. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, everything will be made right for so many omegas trapped in that hellhole of a program. Tomorrow, he’s going to save the goddamn world, even if he can’t save himself.

 

* * * * *

[ ](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/IMG_20170525_160548_zpsrurrb9yi.jpg.html)

 

 

 

Boomer certainly hopes that in future missions, he’ll be on the recon team, not the fucking undercover ops. The monkey suit is hot and far more uncomfortable than fatigues and a little kevlar. Plus, he’s going in without any firepower, and that just sucks.

 

Truly the spawn of James Buchanan barnes, Boomer loves his guns.

 

Bucky and Rollins round the back of the big black van and Boomer watches with a fixed pout as they throw open the doors and begin fastening their equipment on.

 

“Cheer up,” Leo sing-songs, brushing elbows with the downcast, newly-blond kid. “Remember, this was *your* idea. And it’s for a good cause.”

 

Boomer lets out a dry harrumphs, his eyes firmly locked on the small side-road they had veered off of. It’s 18:10, and Rumlow hasn’t shown. “How is our I.T. department coming along?,” he murmurs absentmindedly.

 

“Almost--whoops!” Noa stumbles backwards in a tangle of wires,  effectively dropping a small black box (that Boomer can only assume is a communication device) onto the gravel. “Almost ready!”

 

A low growl emanates to Boomer’s left,  and for a second it almost sounds like there might be a wild animal hiding in the bushes bordering the small secret road. Boomer looks up to discover its coming from Leo, who is grinning like an absolute idiot. Boomer swears he can almost see drool coming from the side of his mouth.

 

Noah’s hair is slicked back and shiny,  his slender frame fitted perfectly with a dark grey suit with baby-blue lapels and a blue bow tie to match. Boomer supposes that sure,  he probably looks pretty good. Leo looks as if he's about to lose all the moisture in his body by way of his slack-jawed mouth.

 

“Hey,” he says breathily.

 

Noa states incredulously for a while at the hulking,  tattooed dudebro before rolling his eyes towards Boomer. He wiggles his thumb in Leo’s direction. “Is this guy for real?”

 

Boomer shrugs. “Fraid so.”

 

“Hey,” Leo says breathily.

 

Noa massages his temples before producing their fake ID’s and handing Leo a sleek,  silver circlet. “I was able to hack into the system and put our names on the roster. Leo, you are Michael McLane, the son of wealthy security systems CEO Louis McLane.  I am your omega--”

 

“ _My_ omega?” Leo’s eyebrows disappear into his bangs. If he could unhinge his jaw, it would be somewhere in the vicinity of the ground by now.

 

“Yes…” Noa agrees warily.

 

Leo scoops his hand up without a second thought, pressing his lips to the back of it. Noa jumps a little, turning an instant bright red and tugging his hand away.

 

“Erhmm….Leo--I mean--Michael, you’re going to have to act like you are in charge, okay? You can’t be...doting on your captive, alright? Think of me like...a servant. I am here for your pleasure only, as a plaything. Do you think you can do that?”

 

Leo is practically giddy. He giggles darkly, nodding his head vehemently. “Huh huh...yeah.”

 

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this...but…” Noa slips the adorable bowtie from around his neck and barely has the chance to bend his neck before Leo lunges for it. He slaps a hand on his chest, forcing him away. “Wait---no biting, okay? Just…” Noa winces, his face now the exact color of a bright red tomato. “...be gentle.”

 

Leo visibly shivers, drawing a hand around Noa’s slight waist and tugging him in slightly. Boomer wonders for a moment if this is how uncomfortable he and Rumlow and make his Dads feel...well. _Made_ his Dads feel, anyway. Noa lets out a little whimper that is obviously doing things to Leo, as he surges forward and his mouth connects with the pulse-point below Noa’s ear.

 

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Noa pushes Leo away, bringing his hand with the silver collar up closer to his neck. “That should be good enough. Now, put that thing on me and we’ll be on our way.”

 

“Well, almost on our way,” Boomer murmurs. His gaze slides back to the empty road.

 

“He will be here,” Bucky says softly behind him, placing a gentle hand on Boomer’s back. Boomer stiffens a little before finally relaxing into the touch, blowing out a shaky breath.

 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess we can always count on your baby-daddy to save the day.”

 

“Boomer!” Rollins shouts, as if _he_ has any business correcting him.

 

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, his voice nearly a whisper. He nods his head towards a small clearing in the woods, close to the road but far enough away that it looks like it would provide them a little solace. “Come on,” he mutters.

 

Boomer shoves his perfectly manicured hands into his stiffly pressed pockets, reluctantly following his Dad into the spot in question. “Look, Daddy,” he starts in with a heavy sigh. “I get that you are in heat and that Uncle Rum took advantage. I just don’t want to think about that right now, okay. Please let me focus on this stupid mission. I’m not in the mood for a long, drawn out, father-son-talk and----”

 

Bucky’s taught arms are thrown around his shoulders so fast it takes the wind out of him. Boomer’s mouth drops open with a shaky rush of air as tears rush out and down his face.

“My sweet boy,” Bucky breathes, and his voice shaky too. “You know I remember when I first held you in my arms. I had never seen such a perfect little being before. I kept looking you over--memorizing your tiny fingers and tiny toes and every little freckle. I never thought your Dad and I could ever know true, lasting peace. True _happiness._ So many decades spanning our time together, so many lives lost. Some, by my own hand. I didn’t deserve you. I never deserved this kind of...complete, overwhelming _joy._ Yet there you were, smiling up at me. It’s true what they say---when you meet the perfect person you love, the whole world melts away.”

 

Boomer’s hands flutter up Bucky’s sides, over the tactical belts and black leather and hidden weapons, tucking themselves in underneath his arms. “Daddy…”

 

“Bail, what I need to know from you. What you need to ask yourself…” Bucky’s tongue flickers over his quivering lips as he draws his son impossibly closer. “...is do you feel that way about Rumlow? Does...does the whole world melt away when you are with him?”

 

Boomer drags an unsteady breath into his lungs, blowing out slowly, deliberately. “Yes. Goddamn it, Daddy. Yeah I do.”

 

“Then you take that feeling. You take it with both hands and you never let go. Because even on days when you feel you want to kill each other and nothing is going right, you can go to that place...that one single moment in time where everything was good and wonderful and _precious..._ and remember what made you feel that way in the first place.”

 

Boomer pulls away, brushing his tears away with the crisp suit sleeve and looking up into his Daddy’s glistening eyes. “Does...does the world melt away when you’re with Uncle Rum?”

 

Bucky lets out a dry laugh, his gaze flickering up into the swaying, dark trees. “God no!”

 

“Really?” A small smile tugs at the corners of Boomer’s mouth as he smears the last of the wetness of his cheeks.

 

“Only when I’m with your Dad.”

 

“Only with Dad?”

 

Bucky nods, echoing his son’s soft smile. “Only with Dad.”

 

The sound of a loud motor rolling down the road breaks into the moment and they both turn to see a bright red Chevy pull in beside the van. Rollins nods in greeting, and a tall, suited alpha with slicked back black hair steps out.

 

Boomer looks back at his Dad, and Bucky taps him on the back. “Go on,” Bucky murmurs. Boomer makes it over the slightly damp grass, being careful not to ruin his shoes, as he makes his way toward the waiting man, his heart pounding in his chest, determination in his veins.


	13. Get in, get out, get gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t…” He starts, smacking his lips. His voice is hoarse. “ I don’t want this to be our last night.”  
>    
> Apprehension stirs in Boomer’s stomach, and he tightens his grip on the wheel as he rounds a corner. “Well you kinda fucked that up, now didn’t you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on "feral" omegas....this is an AMAZING concept that I got from Heimallily, whom this fic is for. So I use the concept with their permission :) 
> 
> Also, this is a VERY long chapter and I suck at action scenes...also, there is a lot of "looking"...IDK?

The mansion looks even larger on the outside than it feels on the inside; Sasha peeks out through the tinted window as the limo pulls away, absentmindedly bringing his fingers up to experiment with the closely-cropped edges of his jet-black hair. His head feels fifty pounds lighter and he plays with the unfamiliar feeling of tossing his head this way and that without a cascade of hair following his every move.

 

“Some alphas force their omegas to wear their hair long as a means of subordination,” the man in the black suit and tie explains. “I prefer a more subtle approach. Besides... “ His voice trails off as he brushes a wide hand across Sasha’s face. It takes every ounce of dignity he has left not to bite his fingers clean off. He shoots the man a warning glance, but if he notices it, he doesn’t respond, instead sweeping a thumb across Sasha’s pursed bottom lip. He tugs on it, pulling it downward into its natural pouty shape. “I can see your lovely expressions so much more easily during my feedings.”

 

Sasha throws his head out of the man’s sickening touch, slamming his eyes once more to the window. It renders nothing more than an amused chuckle from the man.

 

“You still have not told me your name,” Sasha mutters.

 

“Would you introduce yourself to a common house cat?”

 

Sasha huffs.

 

“I thought not. And besides, you will know it soon enough. I am very renowned and well-respected in the Highland community. That is why Bicen chose you for me.”

 

Sasha’s eyes flicker back up to his in an instant, questioningly.

 

“Don’t look so surprised. Bicen’s obsession with you is well-known.” The man chuckles, gazing out his window as he reminisces. “Sasha Dragnov, Dr. Aleric Bicen’s personal pet project. It is a wonder he didn’t put you down with the rest of the Ferals. But I must admit, I am glad he sacrificed all that time and effort molding you into the docile, obedient little creature you are.” The seat beside him dips with the weight of the alpha as he slides impossibly closer, leveling his mouth to Sasha’s ear. “And yet there is still a flicker of resistance in you. One that your imbecilic blue-collared alpha didn’t have the aptitude or the endowment to breed out of you when he had the chance.”

 

Beside him, Sasha’s knuckles are turning white.

 

He must sense the growing tension, because he moves away nonchalantly, plucking a glass of brandy from the wet-bar beside the center console, probably afraid any altercation will set wrinkles on his meticulously pressed lapelles.

 

Across from them, two uniformed guards sit staring, both so enormous their bent knees threaten to touch the roof. They are both nearly identical; Sasha scans them both up and down as covertly as possible. The only major difference is that one is sporting a patch over one eye.

 

The man catches him staring and Sasha forces himself to stare back openly this time. He cocks his head slightly to the side. “What happened?”

 

The guard lets out a grunt, his stoic expression caught somewhere between surprise and disdain. He exchanges uneasy glances between his partner and then to his boss, who gives him a firm nod. “I had an _accident_ ,” he offers.

 

Suddenly the suited man bursts out laughing, throwing his head back dramatically as the guard shoots him a wide-eyed glare. “An accident? Oh come on, Breggs! Tell him the truth. Tell him one of his fellow omegas escaped Bicen’s compound by driving a syringe through your retina.”

 

The agent snarls, but it does nothing to stop the man from telling the story that he obviously finds so humorous.

 

“Tell him how I took pity on the both of you because Bicen was going to have you neutralized for your complete failure. How grateful you are to me for my mercy and generosity. How one tiny red-head made fools of the both of you. But especially out of _you,_ Breggs.”

 

The guard named Breggs lowers his eyes in resignation, regaining his stoic expression and staring straight ahead. “Yes sir,” he murmurs. “Thank you, sir.”

 

He seems to have had his fill from the humiliation of the hulking agent, because he sits back in his seat once more, bringing his glass to his lips in a sly, entertained grin. He brings one hand behind Sasha’s neck in a massage that feels more like a series of hard pinches that make Sasha’s stomach churn. “And for the sake of educating my sweet young pet, please...tell him what you are going to do once you found the little ingrate that took half your vision.”

 

“I’m going to fuck him,” the alpha growls. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

 

* * * * *

 

Rumlow looks like shit, which is less than surprising. The deep purple marks around his eyes and lips have only begun to fade, making the dried blood of the cuts shine red in the light of the street lamp.

 

“You’ve been drinking,” Boomer murmurs. The scent coming off Rumlow is the latent spices of his own musk mixed with the bitter burn of Jack and Jagermeister. His eyes are rimmed with red as Boomer yanks the keys out of them, pushing Brock towards the passenger side of the vehicle.

 

The Chevy may not be as fancy as the Buggatti was, but it’s brand new with a mirror finish and could easily pass for some rich asshole’s everyday driver. “You look nice,” Brock slurs a little.

 

Boomer jams his eyebrows downward. “Ya know, fucking my Dad is one thing. But if you fuck this mission, you are literally screwing with people’s lives, here.”

 

Rumlow throws the door open with a shrug. “I’m fine, kid. You keep your head down and remember your place and we’ll be just fine.”

 

Boomer’s mouth drops open slightly as he plants his hands on his hips. “My...my place? And just what the fuck is my _place,_ Rumlow?”

 

Rumlow produces the silver circlet from his pocket, twirling it around his finger a few times before holding it up for inspection. “Remember, Boom? For one perfect night, you’re gonna be more than just my omega.” His free hand clamps around Boomers throat as he backs him into the side of the truck with a body-slam. Boomer’s shoulderblades connect with a BANG that makes Noa jump and Leo and Bucky come running. “You’re gonna be my docile, doting little _bitch._ And the real kicker?”, he adds with a greasy sneer, “Is you’re gonna have to pretend you like it.”  

 

“Back off!” Leo barks, wedging an arm in between the two as Boomer struggles for breath. His eyes burn into Rumlow’s with defiant fury, his perfectly tousled blond hair coming undone from the tight ponytail, long bangs flying around his face.

 

“That’s what you want, pisshead?” He squeaks out under the crushing power of his fingers. He shoves back, though it does little good against Brock’s knotted, bulging muscle. “You want a toy? Huh? An omega that whimpers and begs, one that you can save? One that’ll lie and tell you your tiny, two-inch prick is enough? One that doesn’t bowl over your fragile ego, or intimidate your pathetic alpha alignment? Jesus--are you even _alpha_ at all?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I want,” Rumlow grounds out through seething, clenched teeth, every vein in his neck twisting and knotted like roots in a tree, his knuckles going white around Boomer’s neck. “I want you begging for it like the pathetic fuck-hole you are. You think you can get rid of me so easily? Huh? Insult my fucking dick when just a few days ago you were bouncing on it and drooling like a gutter-slut?  No, I don’t think so, cupcake. You want this. You want every bit of it and that’s why you keep begging me for more.”  

 

The smooth click of a hammer sliding into place stops the onslaught of insults. Bucky steadies his P220, leveling the barrel of the pistol at Rumlow’s temple. “ _Off_.”

 

The pressure releases methodically, and Boomer leans forward as he lunges into a coughing fit, both hands going to his throat. Leo pounds his back as Bucky levels his icy glare at Rumlow, motioning to the side of the road with his gun.

 

Rumlow lets off uneasily, hands raised over his head, fingers spread and gnawing on his bottom lip like he’s got something else to add. He levels his intense stare at Bucky as he backs away, unblinking. “Ya know, sweet cheeks. There was a time that I’d be on the other end of that gun. Don’t you forget that.”

 

Boomer jams his head upward towards the pair, visibly shaken, his eyes rimmed red and glistening with starting tears.

 

“Go home,” Bucky growls between clenched teeth. “You’re drunk.”

 

“No,” Boomer barks. He straightens up, slipping Leo’s hand off his shoulder and smoothing his hair back. “We are going to need him for this.” He angrily sweeps at a stray tear, throwing his head back with a sniffle.

 

Bucky eyes his son up and down, his expression one that tells Boomer that his Daddy is far less than thrilled at the idea. Boomer ignores it the best he can, surging forward for the truck keys that dangle from Rumlow’s pocket.

 

“But _I’m_ driving.”

 

With the stage finally set, the actors take their places: Kitty, Rollins and Bucky in the surveillance van, Boomer and Rumlow in the truck, with Noa and Leo following close behind in a slick black Charger.  

 

Boomer has to physically stop himself from gripping the wheel too hard, his knuckles burning from the pressure.

 

“You look just like you did when you were a baby,” Rumlow slurs. He fumbles for the newly deactivated collar, pulling it up from between the seats. “All that yellow hair.”

 

Boomer throws a murderous glare at him before tearing the it from his grasp and punching the gas so hard Rumlow’s head hits the back windshield with a dense THUD. A grin crawls across his face as Rumlow lets out an undignified sound that is somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Boomer snaps the collar in place. His mating marks have already begun to fade a little, but Rumlow’s scent surrounds him, catering to his needy omega nature and making his blood boil hot. He jams his eyebrows down as he barrels down the road.

 

>Check your speed!< Bucky’s voice comes through over the radio in his ear.

 

“Yeah, Yeah,” he murmurs.

 

Rumlow has abandoned his side of the front seat for the middle section, crowding Boomer’s space as he leans down into him, sniffing his hair. “Mmmh, you smell so good.”

 

“OFF,” Boomer snarls, catapulting him back to his spot with a violent shove.

 

Rumlow lets out a chuckle, shaking his head as he readjusts himself. “Yep. Just like your old man.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“Take your pick.”

 

The cab gets suddenly silent after this, the air stilling as the breeze of the autumn air crawls its way through. Rumlow must be sobering up some, because he’s managed to sit up straight for three consecutive minutes and is now scratching the back of his neck as he stares out the window. “I don’t…” He starts, smacking his lips. His voice is hoarse. “ I don’t want this to be our last night.”

 

Apprehension stirs in Boomer’s stomach, and he tightens his grip on the wheel as he rounds a corner. “Well you kinda fucked that up, now didn’t you.”

 

“Yeah...yeah, kiddo. I did.”

 

Another few uncomfortable moments pass, and Boomer finds himself glancing down at the radar signal on his watch, timing the trip and praying they can get there _fast._

 

“I screwed up. I have fucked up so many things in my life. I...never meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to--”

 

Boomer slams on the brakes suddenly, tearing the wheel to the side and throwing the truck onto the side of the road.

 

“--FUCK!”

 

“No.” Boomer eyes flash with hurt and betrayal and a million feelings at once, glaring at Rumlow, nostrils flaring. “NO, you don’t get to say that to me.”

 

>What’s going on?< Bucky’s voice again, over the radio.

 

Boomer replies with a quick, “Stand by.” He throws the truck into park, the engine rumbling as it idles. “You don’t get to be the sad one, the hurt one. The one that gets all weak and shit. You DID fuck up, Uncle Rum. You fucked up big time. Our chances of getting and staying together in this shit-show of what you call a “relationship” were already thin! Then you go and--and...do THIS?”

 

Rumlow stares out the front window, rubbing a hand down his face.

 

“NO. I’m sorry. Daddy actually thinks I should give you another chance, you know that? But after the shit you just pulled...showing up to a mission blitzed out of your goddamn mind, spouting your alpha-male, centuries-old _bullshit rhetoric_ …”

 

“Boomer.” Rumlow trepidatiously reaches out, steadying a hand on Boomer’s shoulder. The touch works its way down Boomer’s spine like electricity, to have his alpha so close, the comforting allure of his natural musk accented with the bitter tang of alcohol. “Sweetheart…”

 

Boomer raises a hand, effectively stopping Rumlow’s train of thought. “Let’s just get this over with. There are more lives at stake here than just yours or mine, and I want the asshole who experimented on me to pay.”

 

Rumlow’s expression lightens, as he forces a soft, proud smile. He jams his shoulders back, coming to attention as much as is possible while remaining seated and he gives him a dutiful nod. It soon quirks up into an impish grin as he says, “You got it. Lead the way, Cap.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Anything you say, Cap.”

 

“You’re an ass,” Boomer grumbles as he jams the truck back into gear. They veer off down the road, with the two other vehicles in tow.

 

* * * * *

 

There is a reason there are no omega agents in Shield. Noa always knew Boomer was a special case, but that didn’t stop him from begging his friend not to enter the alpha-dominated field of spying, law-enforcement and all-around ass kickery. Omegas excel in the arts and sciences, and there are plenty of good, solid, _safe_ occupations to be had.  Boomer could have been anything! Why did he have to chose the Agency? More importantly, (Noa thinks as he stares up the winding steps of the looming mansion) why did he have to drag _him_ into this?

 

“S’okay,” Leo mumurs behind him, and Noa feels a wide hand land softly on the small of his back. His cheeks flush, the latent calming effect of his Alpha-For-The-Moment skittering along his spine and dulling his overworked senses. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel comforting. “Not going to let anything happen to you.”

 

Leo has the look of a typical dudebro: tattooed, over-muscular and cocky. But his voice is laced with a softness that Noa finds astounding, and his mere presence is enough to calm the butterflies in his stomach. Noa has no doubt that they are about to meet a slew of overbearing, cruel alphas--it’s nice to be reminded that they aren’t _all_ that way.

 

They make it past the door guards with relative ease, Leo handing them an altered invitation slip and flashing a shiny “Highland Club” badge. The tallest security officer--and they are all gargantuan--eyes Noa with a look that makes him feel like a shiny package of meat in the grocery store fridge. A grin that is so slight that Noa nearly misses it quirks the edge of his mouth upward and he nods to Leo, handing him back the invite. Noa presses a little closer into Leo’s side.

 

The place doesn’t appear heavily armed, but that’s probably on purpose. A dining room full of this many powerful, prestigious alphas only spells trouble of the most dire kind.

 

The foyer is a huge hall with winding staircases jutting out from either sides, spiraling up into hidden levels that have all been identified thanks to Rollins’ makeshift map. The scent is so overpowering he has to take a step back, even as Leo tugs gently on his arm. It is a conglomeration of alpha scents mashing mid-air, the spice and musk mingling together is far too much to be appealing. Underneath is the diminished fragrance of omega--lithe and alluring but with a hint of...is that _fear_?

 

Leo’s grasp switches to his hand as he spots a quick exit to the stairway and tugs Noa towards it. Noa catches a glimpse of Boomer and Rumlow as they enter behind them, and it gives him a fleeting sense of relief that they, too, have made it in without detection. Leo tosses a quick glance left then right, finding an opening before launching Noa up the stairs in front of him and darting up after. They scale the steps, as quickly and cautiously as possible, crouching when they notice an armed guard at the top of the landing, pacing back and forth as he surveils the perimeter. Leo wedges Noa closer into the wall and holds a hand up in front of his face. Noa’s heart is suddenly in his throat as the realization of the danger they are all in hits him head-on.

 

“ _What are you doing_?--” His voice is less than a whisper when Leo rounds the stairs, just as the guard’s back is turned, and lunges at the guy. His long legs coil around the big alpha’s waist, one muscular arm constricting around his neck. The guard seizes up, throwing a hand behind his head to claw at Leo. He is unsuccessful. With one stifled groan, he slumps to his knees, and Noa watches in horror as his body dissolves into involuntary jerks and twitches before at last going still. Leo releases him, unsheathing a needle Noa hadn’t noticed he had and plunging it into the guard’s neck.

 

“ _What was that_?”

 

Leo grabs Noa’s hand, pulling him into the shadow of a recessed doorway. _“Just a sedative. He’ll be out long enough for us to get the goods and get gone._ ”

 

Noa pulls back a little on instinct. “ _I thought you killed him!?”_

 

Leo snickers under his breath. “ _You’ve been watching too many spy movies.”_

 

According to Rollins’ makeshift map, the third corridor on the right leads to a small room; Bicen’s office and inner sanctum. There are cameras on either wall and just above the door: Noa disables them by scrambling the radio waves via a really handy program he invented and installed on his watch. The one nice thing about this mission, he adds on after-thought, is that he gets to see W.I.R.E.’s inventions in use in the field, first-hand. He approaches the entry lock: a flat piece of metal with a 3-d access display--it looks practically space-aged in comparison to the ornate oak door it is attached to. Leo presses his back to Noa’s, shifting his head down either end of the hallway and readying another vial of tranquilizer.

 

“How long is it going to take you to crack that?”

 

Noa opens the projectile components of the miniscule hard drive in his watch and sends a signal to the wall panel. “It could be a few minutes,” he murmurs, double-checking the coordinates before sending an “erase” command. Any wrong move could result in an alarm being triggered.

 

“Stay here,” Leo grinds out, and Noa feels the warmth of the other body leaving him. Moments later, a dull thud resounds on the carpeted floor, followed by a dragging sound, then Leo is back. Noa lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

 

“Okay. I’m uploading a patch file through an ad-hoc network to override the encrypted data.”

 

“...huh?”

 

Noa sighs and tries again. “I’m cracking the password.”

 

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

 

Before Noa can roll his eyes, the access code chimes and the 3D image fades, leaving one single flashing bar that lights up green at the end. He flicks the handle downward and the heavy oak door gives way. The weight of the alpha on his back causes Noa to topple forward into the room and onto the plush carpeting, bringing the lanky tattooed brunet down with him.

 

Leo catches himself on his elbow before he end up completely crushing him, but it doesn’t stop Noa’s face from beaming red. He only prays the room is dark enough that Leo doesn’t notice. The alpha’s scent surrounds him like a thick fog, and his eyes drift down Leo’s torso. _Good Lord_...the shape of his solid pectorals are evident even underneath the suit, the arms just a little too small for the biceps that threaten to tear it to shreds at any moment. Leo sounds out a shy laugh before scampering to his feet and nudging the door closed. He offers his hand down to Noa, and Noa accepts, his eyes darting away awkwardly as he runs a brisk hand through his hair.

 

“You ah….” Leo swallows, his adam’s apple bouncing up and down like a yoyo. “You smell really... _really_ good.”

 

“Thanks,” Noa mutters. With entry achieve, he flits towards the heavy wooden desk and slides into the office chair. He taps the flat black screen embedded in its surface and a glowing blue frame projects itself. In the center, a small box with a blinking cursor lights up.

 

At some point, Leo must have remembered his duties, because he is back at the door now, pushing it open just far enough to peek through a small sliver.

 

“I need five minutes,” Noa says, his voice still a hushed tone.

 

“We’re in,” Leo murmurs into his radio. “Noa says five minutes.” And Rumlow’s raspy voice comes through on the other end.

 

>Tell him he has three.<

 

* * * * *

 

Boomer takes his place at the table, keeping his eyes focused downward. If he needed a short lesson on how to act like a docile omega, this would sure as hell be the place to do it. His stomach churns as Bicen (clad in a suit so white he could reflect the sun) taps a knife against the side of his champagne glass, bringing all eyes on him.

Under the table, Rumlow gives Boomer’s hand a gentle squeeze. Boomer shoves it away.

 

“Good evening, my esteemed guests, and thank you for coming.”

 

If the speech that ensues isn’t nauseating enough for Boomer to feel like losing the avocado wrap he had for lunch,, being surrounded by the stench of over-bearing uber-alpha ought to do the trick. Rumlow taps Boomers hand again, and just as Boomer jerks his head to swat it away, Rumlow’s lips are right up against the edge of his ear.  “Four down, left side. Short black hair.”

 

Boomer’s eyes land on the downcast, pale face of an omega with sleek, black hair. He looks like he could be a model: even Boomer finds his features striking. Settled beneath the delicate slope  of a brow ridge and between a nose that looks as if it was chiseled from fine marble are the saddest, most haunting eyes Boomer has ever seen. His distant gaze is removed, ethereal, as if he has occupied himself with some other world in lieu of having to suffer through this one. “That’s sasha?,” Boomer murmurs, as quietly as he can.

 

“Yes.”

 

A wave of envy washes over him, followed by a sudden tinge of guilt. So this is Rumlow’s “other omega”? Boomer’s mind is suddenly swirling with questions that seem to come from his fucked-up omega conscience: like if he and Rumlow really end up breaking up, will Rumlow go back to Sasha? Would Rollins even let him? And what’s the whole story with that, anyway? Why would Rollins willingly share _his omega--_ his Baby-Daddy, especially one as beautiful as this?

 

More thoughts flood in, fueled by sheer omega jealousy, and he can’t even keep up with the feelings long enough to hate himself properly for them.

 

_(Why would Rumlow leave *Sasha* for me? Sasha, the far superior omega specimen? He looks like a porcelain doll. Ya know what I’d like to do? I’d love to erase that perfect coy expression with my fist. No, no. That’s not right._

 

_YOU KNOW WHAT’S NOT RIGHT? That fucking disgusting weak-ass face of his. Giving omegas a reputation as demure, serving cock-whores not fit to walk the earth…_

 

_Stop. Stop it, NOW. We are on a mission. We are going to save him, save him and his two omega kids that are up for auction…_

 

_I BET I’M NOT AS GOOD AS THAT. I bet Rumlow likes it when he knots an omega who doesn’t fight back. I bet he pants and whimpers and tells Rumlow how much he likes him, hell maybe even LOVES him. Because he acts how an omega is supposed to act, he is WHAT AN OMEGA IS SUPPOSED TO BE.)_

 

“You okay?” Rumlow’s hand is at his back, now, putting firm pressure on ohe shoulder blade. Boomer shakes his head, desperate to clear it--it’s just the irrational nature of the beast, when faced with a rival omega.

 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.”

 

There is a low growl to his left, and Boomer flashes a look of unguarded disdain at the alpha next to him. He’s a brunet with a beard that is graying at the edges--and his scent marker suggests he is older than he looks,  or at the very least,  that he has been doing this a very long time.

 

Rumlow flashes Boomer and equally pissed-off glare,  and even though Boomer knows it's for the show, he has to physically unfurl his eyebrows. He jams his eyes closed, lowering his head like an obedient omega should, and casts his cold gaze to Bicen, who is still busy getting off on the sound of his own voice at the head of the table.

 

The alphas are given course after course of raw meats and uncooked fish (probably to help stave off their primal urge to kill off every other alpha in the place and fuck every omega) while the omegas are given tea-cup sized salads that look more like funerary flower arrangements and there is a light dusting of cooked egg on everything. It takes everything Boomer has in him not to hurl right onto the delicately decorated china.

 

After the longest hour of Boomer’s life, the plates cleared away, with the alphas--Rumlow included-- having cleaned up every last crumb of food and most omegas having eaten just enough to make it look like they’re not starving.

 

“Jackie?” Boomer hears the softly spoken name and it takes him a moment to realize it came from Sasha--the first word he has heard him say (and the first time any omega has dared mutter a damn thing in this place)  and his voice is even more lithe and coy and silvery than his appearance. Boomer hates him already.

 

The look of complete horror alighting Sasha’s face makes him turn his head the same direction of Sasha’s sad-eyed stare.

 

More omegas.

 

They are young, most of them probably not old enough to drive a car. Most are boys, but there are a few girls, too, marched in through a hidden corridor and paraded in front of the crowd of leering alphas and mournful omegas. They are all clad in a pair of sterile-looking, flimsy white bottoms that hide little. The temperature in the room spikes several degrees as the alphas let out a collective murmur of approval. Boomer’s nausea worsens.

 

Sasha jerks forward and tries to stand despite the heavy hand that clamps down around his shoulder. “SIT,” his alpha hisses.

 

“Daddy?” A scared, black-haired boy pushes past the blond girl beside him, craning his neck out into the crowd. A guard draws his automatic rifle across the boy’s freckle-dusted chest, pushing him back into line. He lets out a whimper of protest as tears bubble to the surface of his eyes.

 

It is then that Boomer realizes that Bicen has been talking for the last few minutes, probably introducing his ‘auction pieces’. “Now, I understand, this is a moment where emotions often run high,” Bicen states matter-of-factly, drawing an arm around the shaken child. As he smooths the boy’s jet-black hair back, tucking it behind his ear, the boy chokes down a sob, trying to squeeze out of the crook of his arm, but Bicen brings it down further, effectively trapping him there against his spotless white suit. “It is a completely natural emotion, both from our mated omegas and their children. I can assure you it is a proud moment, that these tears your omega mates shed are tears of joy, because this--ladies and gentlemen--is the _purpose_ of their existence. To breed, to produce offspring of unmatched quality. _Alphas_ of quality. Faster. Stronger. Larger.”

 

He gestures to the many uniformed guards scattered about the room. “These are their offspring, a new generation of genetically superior humans that will surpass our evolutionary climb in 1/1000th of the time. Found only here, in the Highland group.”

 

“They’re not auctioning the alphas,” Rumlow muses under his breath. He wears a smirk and Boomer can’t tell if he’s excited, impressed or disgusted. Maybe both. “He’s building a goddamn army with them.”

 

Boomer clenches his teeth, his hand traveling down to the hidden pistol at his side, and Rumlow’s wide hand covers it. “DON’T,” he growls.

 

“Not yet,” Rumlow mutters. “You’ll blow the whole thing.”

 

Shield Agent Handbook, Chapter 47, article 3, section 12: an Agent never acts on impulse. Use the mission as your mantra. Repeat the details often, and especially when emotions run high and threaten the integrity of the mission. Boomer blows out a sigh, closing his eyes momentarily to murmur to himself, “ _Get Bicen alone. Surround, Contain, Coerce.”_

 

“Good boy.”

 

Boomer shoots him a look.

 

Bicen slides his hand away from the quivering boy, who obediently returns to his spot in line. “Sasha.”

 

Sasha looks up at Bicen, whose smile is so serene it sends chills through Boomer.

 

“ _My_ Sasha,” the doctor tisks, shaking his head slowly. He travels around the table to the tortured omega who stares straight ahead, swallowing so sharply Boomer swears he can hear it. Bicen touches the short strands of his hair, and his expression is one of sad nostalgia. He eyes the alpha beside him, who straightens up in the chair and clears his throat. “Why did you cut his hair?”

 

“I…”

 

“I so loved your hair,” Bicen purrs, curling his fingers around the black waves. Suddenly, he pulls them taut, jerking his head back and Sasha lets out a startled cry as his chin hits the doctor’s smooth lapelles. “It made such a wonderful hand-hold while lovemaking. Do you recall, Sasha?”

 

His thick black eyelashes flutter before he stills, slumping obediently against the looming blond.

 

“I know you do. I have knotted you so hard and so deeply that your very insides still bare my marks. And to see you here, again, free from the chains of your blue-collar, pathetic, meat-head of an alpha, back where you belong. It thrills my very soul.” He plunges his hand into the waistband of Sasha’s pants and Sasha lets out an undignified squeal, shoving back against him. The alpha behind holds him steady, wrapping one arm around Sasha’s neck.

 

“P-please…”

 

“Daddy!!!” This time, it’s the skinny blonde girl that launches forward, tearing herself out of the arms of the guard to scamper across to Sasha. Another guard stops her, this one gathering her up in his arms like she’s a wilted daisy, her half-nude body writhing against him for all she's worth.

 

“You are my finest creation,” Bicen murmurs,  his hand curving around and underneath the folds of Sasha's dress shirt to his stomach. “I always regretted you not having my pups. I hate seeing you so distraught. I can't help but think that it's partially my fault. That you were never willing to rid yourself of your babies because I never gave you enough of them. Should we try again, my lovely?”

 

Sasha’s eyes flash, and that is the only warning before he spits in Bicen’s face. “Go to hell.”

 

A shock-wave rolls through the gathering, echoed by whispers and murmurs from the alphas. As if insulting Bicen insults all of them. Bicen’s peels back his outstretched hand, and Boomer’s goes for his gun faster than Rumlow can stop him.

 

“STOP RIGHT THERE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER.”

 

The sound of guns cocking and ammo sliding into place and a hundred alphas turning in their chairs all at once assaults Boomer’s ears. Glowing red dots train on his face and chest from the balconies somewhere above him, and Rumlow murmurs an expletive beside him before standing up, back-to-back with his “partner” and training his pistol on the top of Bicen’s head.

 

Bicen’s perfectly shaped eyebrow raises, and he’s amused enough that he loosens his hold on Sasha, lowering his arm back to his side. “Mr. Barnes,” Bicen greets with a nod of his head.

 

Boomer freezes. He feels a slight twitch developing in his lower eye, but continues glaring at the man through the sight on his weapon.

 

“Let him go,” Boomer growls.

 

In a move that surprises Boomer, Bicen slips Sasha from his hold, allowing him to tumble back into the arms of his alpha. “I want you to think sincerely about what you are about to do,” he states smoothly, crossing to his spot at the head of the table and taking a leisurely sip of champagne. “Especially considering you are operating outside the bounds of the law. You and I both know that.”

 

“Does it matter?,” Boomer sneers. “What you are doing here is fucking sick, and you know it. Every single one of you knows it! And you messed up when you brought me into this.”

 

Bicen’s eyes narrow. “Clearly.” He absentmindedly taps the side of his glass, angling his head toward Rumlow. “And what is it that you want?”

 

“Uh-uh!” Boomer interjects, elbowing his way in front of Rumlow. “You’re not talking to him, you ignorant bag of dicks. You’re talking to _me_!”

 

Bicen nods to two of his guards who move in a little closer, weapons honed in on the space around Boomer’s shoulders. “Alright, little omega. What can I do for _you_?”

 

“You can--you _will_ \--let them go. Everybody!”

 

Bicen’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, and here I thought you wanted to kill me.”

 

“What good would that do? What evil would that stop? No, I’m gonna tear you a new asshole. I’m gonna take everything from you that means so fucking much. I’m going to destroy you slowly--tear you down--piece by piece until there’s nothing left. _Then_ I’m going to kill you so that you can’t ever do anything like this to anyone else. But first, you’re going to let everyone go.”

 

As if he is the principle at a boarding PTA meeting, Bicen pulls his chair out and takes his seat, folding his hands on one crossed leg. “Look around you.”

 

Boomer’s eyes stay burned into Bicen’s.

 

“As any omega can tell you, the world is a scary place. At any moment you could be accosted by a strange alpha or beta, with little or no means of defending yourself. Perhaps the life you see before you is not ideal in all cases, but most...maybe even all…. of these omegas could agree that it’s still a much better life than what the outside world would object them to. Here, they are welcomed. Cherished. Well taken care of, inside and out.” (Boomer shivers a little at that) “What chance will they have in your society if they leave?”

 

“They will have _choice!”_

 

“Choice?” Bicen lets out a bitter laugh. “Such a fine line between freedom and enslavement that even you don’t see it.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about.”

 

“My dear boy, you presented at...what, I’m guessing, 14? 15? And during that time you went through your first heat, which is a very intense heat, more so than most of the heats you will experience during your entire lifetime. You presented yourself to every alpha, whether you knew it or not. Your scent, your eyes, your body--your every move betraying you. You probably got so desperate you were begging for it.”

 

Boomer feels the heat spreading across his face, his shame in admitting to himself that he is just a product of his reproductive alignment showing clear as day for everyone to see, and he hates himself for it.

 

“Mission compromised,” he hears Rumlow murmur into his radio behind him. “Repeat- _Mission compromised_!”

 

“What you do is still enslavement!,” Boomer barks. “You can say you are providing a safe place for your omegas, but--but what does that matter if they are not free to leave?”

 

Bicen shakes his head. “Again, child, you misunderstand. Most of them are free to leave anytime.”

 

Boomer sputters a little at this. “What do you mean?”

 

Bicen shrugs. “It is true that they come in not of their own accord, but once a relationship with their alpha is...established, most become content, and see that it is in their best interest to stay. Their children are here. They have parents and children that are part of the Program, just as they are a part of it. Why would they leave when everything is provided for them? When they are taken care of? Our security staff are all children of omegas who have thrived in the Program. Take Breggs, for instance.” He waves towards a guard who, unlike the rest, is perched against the post of the hallway leading out, arms folded in front of his chest. A black eye-patch crosses his otherwise blemishless face. “I believe you two have met?”

 

Boomer’s eyes meet the alpha’s and suddenly the realization his him; the guard he stabbed in the eye...He throws his attentions back to Bicen. “You’re a sick bastard.” Boomer flicks the end of his pistol towards the group of cowering omegas behind him. “Let them go!”

 

Bicen leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Very well.” He waves a signal to his guards. “Let them go.”

 

“B-but sir…”

 

“I said, let them go.”

 

The guards all step back, some slower and more hesitantly than others, as the group of new omegas rush to find their parents in among the gathering. Sasha nearly collapses when his two omega-pups throw their arms around him, tears glittering in his eyes.

 

“Okay.” Boomer’s tongue flicks out across his lips as he steadies the gun, his eyes shifting left and right. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re leaving. Anybody who follows, is dead. Got that?”

 

“It’s as I said, Mr. Barnes. They are all free to go. All of them.”

 

Boomer searches the eyes of the families, the omegas who cradle their children and look up at Boomer with wide, fearful eyes.

 

“You’re frightening them, Mr. Barnes.”

 

“You shut up!” Boomer launches himself across the room, gun trained right between Bicen’s eyes, tears glittering and hot.

 

“You had best go,” Bicen says cooly, between pursed lips. Something in his voice chills Boomer’s very core.

 

He looks back at Rumlow, who has gathered the only three who have taken Boomer up on his offer. Sasha brings an arm around either child, holding them tight. Rumlow steps in front of them, shielding them with his body as he waves Boomer out. “Come on!”

 

Boomer’s eyes shift one last time around the room, his gaze lingering a half a millisecond longer on the one-eyed guard. He blows out a shuddering breath and turns, bolting out the door after Rumlow, Sasha, and the two kids.

 

Bicen’s voice is sing-song and carefree as they leave, following behind them and reverberating against the marble floor and spiraling stair-case. “You’re welcome back for another lesson any time, Mr. Barnes…”

 

* * * * *

 

“We’ve been compromised,” Leo murmurs. “Their security is going to be on high alert. Did you get the files yet?”

 

“Let’s see….there are 27 children, right?”, Noa mutters, his eyes scanning the database that flies past, seemingly in mid air. “Minus the two at the dinner, is twenty-five, so….Yes. Yeah. I’ve found all the coordinates.”

 

“Good,” Leo states, dragging a massive oak chest against the double doors after slamming them shut. He uncoils a thin ball of black rope and perches a booted foot against the window sill. “Then let’s get out of here.”

 

“Wh--what? Through that?!” Noa shuts down the computers and trots over to stare down at the 50-foot drop below.

 

Leo grabs for his hand, tugging him upwards. “No time. Let’s go.”

 

“No-no-wait! We-we can’t!!”

 

Leo drags the struggling omega around the waist. “Look, kid I’m trying to save your ass, here, not fuck it!”

 

“Well that’s a change---” Leo throws the tiniest grappling hook Noa has ever seen and gives it an experimental tug. Noa’s heart is in his throat as he squeezes Leo tight, chanting “No, no, no, no, please, no.”

 

A heavy bang resounds on the other side of the heavy wooden door, jolting them both and suddenly Leo’s mouth is mashed against Noa’s, warm and firm and perfect, as he draws his arm around his slight waist and presses their bodies tight together.

 

Noa pulls away and the sudden loss of suction results in a comical “POP”. When the air returns to his lungs, he asks, “Did you do that because we might die?”

 

Leo throws his head back in a sparkling laugh. “What? No! I did that because I’ve been thinking about it all night.” Noa lets out a little gasp as he tugs him off the ledge and into the midnight air.

 

* * * * *

 

Sasha slows down the steps, not wanting to lose sight of his kids as they make their escape. He doesn’t look back. Knows looking back always leads to bad things. He hits the wide expanse of his husband’s arms just feet from the door, with Bucky nudging them towards the van.

 

“Happy reunion’s going to have to wait till we’re out of the perimeter.” Bucky slides the door open, rushing the elated couple and their two children inside. A young, brown-haired alpha sits behind a computer station and smiles gently at the shivering teens. “Here,” she says, tossing her jacket to the black-haired boy and  then her overshirt to the girl.

 

“So glad to see you,  baby,” Rollins nuzzles Sasha’s cheek,  streaking his pale skin with tears.

 

“Thought I'd never see you again,” Sasha mutters as Rollins worries his bottom lip.

 

“I know,  baby. I know. I'd always come for you.”

 

“We ready?” Bucky glances over his shoulder as Rumlow approaches, gun still drawn.

 

“Yeah. Leo and Noa have already cleared the area and are on their way to the rendezvous point.”

 

Rumlow nods. “Now to get the keys from Boomer and get going.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“Huh?” Rumlow spins around, back going rigid, blowing out a stifled puff of air. He pushes the button on his radio.

 

>Boomer, what is your location?<

 

Rumlow takes the button off the receiver, looks at Bucky and shrugs. “He was right behind me!”

 

Bucky pushes his com button. “Boomer. Location. NOW.”

 

_Static._

 

Bucky flashes a look back at Rollins as he slides the Skorpion from his back holster. “Get them out of here,” he growls. Rollins takes the front seat, slamming on the accelerator and tearing out of the winding driveway before the van doors close.

 

* * * * * *

 

In the dark recesses of what looks to be an abandoned garden, a man holds a gloved hand over Boomer’s mouth and a blade to his throat. “Not. One. Word, redhead. Got it?”

 

* * * * * *

 

 


	14. Agent Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he is called up to the stage, his heart stops for a second. This moment--this is what it has all been about. Not because he’s omega or the son of Captain America. But because he’s wanted this, more than anything, for as long as he can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you that has taken time to read, leave kudos and especially Comment. This fic has been my heartbeat for the past few months and I am sad to see it come to an end. Everything happens pretty fast and I could go on and on with scenes if I didn't have several other muses vying for my attention.  
> I never expected this fic to get 3, 000 hits. For an OC, that's unheard of. I am so humbled. I would of course be happy to answer any questions because I do leave a few things open ended on purpose, because there is a good chance that I may write future fics based on this story/universe.  
> Thank you again. Your support keeps me going. All my love to you. I hope you enjoy!

_Three years earlier…_

“I don’t like it, Buck.”

Bucky finds Steve sitting in the garage, perched on the edge of his motorcycle, staring at the impressive collection of tools they’ve amassed over the years. His brow is wrinkled with worry, one fist pressed sideways against his mouth, arms folded across his chest.

Bucky slips in beside him to rest his chin on the expanse of Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He smells clean—like fresh cut grass and aftershave. “We kind of knew it was coming. I mean, Rumlow _is_ his hero. And Boomer’s not exactly desk-job material.” Bucky glances down at the crumpled up paper tucked beneath Steve’s arm.

Steve watches as he wiggles it free, letting out a dissatisfied harrumph.“I know, but still. The Academy?”

“He’s always wanted to attend the Academy! You’ve seen him; cheering on the cadets, right alongside Rumlow during practice. He knows the moves by heart.”

“Okay, but this is a different story!” Steve’s eyes slam back to the wall, and if he could shoot lasers out of them, there’d be a fifty foot crater burned right through their garage wall.

Bucky’s expression darkens and he studies Steve’s face through thick brown bangs. “You mean because he’s an omega.”

“Yes. You know that’s what I mean.”

Bucky gathers what’s left of his patience in a slow inward breath and reaches up to smooth back a few unruly hairs at Steve’s temple. They are almost pure white, now, and it makes Bucky smile. He supposes most people probably worry about the effects of age—after all, society worships youth and beauty—but for Bucky, it _is_ beautiful. He never thought he’d get the chance to grow old at all, let alone get to experience it right alongside Steve. “He is our punishment, you know,” he murmurs, stroking the silky underside of Steve’s earlobe. His alpha, still pouting, is unable to hold back a contented moan.

“For what?”

Bucky tosses his head back, searching the ceiling for memories. “Well, let’s see…remember that time we set Mrs. Togru’s cat on fire?”

“We didn’t mean to!” Steve wails in horror as laughter peals from Bucky’s chest. “Thank god it was just her tail, and we were able to snuff out the flames before she even felt it. I TOLD you not to leave that candle so close to the open window!”

“I know, I know..!” Bucky wipes a tear from his eye as his laughter subsides into a satiated sigh and he gives his husband a tender nudge. “But you see what I’m getting at.”

“Sure do,” Steve mutters. “That boy is hell on wheels.”

Bucky’s expression softens as he sweeps his metal hand across Steve’s pectorals, hard as marble underneath the flimsy gray tee shirt. “He will be fine. Besides, at least this way he won’t be shipping off to some school in Washington or something.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise and he pulls away a little from the circle of Bucky’s arms to stare down at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. You thought I was going to let him study somewhere outside of a 5-mile perimeter from home?”

“No,” Bucky says honestly, leaning in to press his smiling lips against Steve’s. “Because I wasn’t about to let him, either.”

* * * * *

_Presently_

Bucky never did become an Avenger. Not officially, anyway. He’s had his fill of ultra-secret super-organizations, thank you: enough to last him several lifetimes in fact. It’s not that he sees anything wrong about the Avengers or Shield, it’s just that he can’t stand the politics. Steve himself has quit numerous times only to be drawn back in by his self-sacrificial sense of duty, honor and justice. Still, Bucky knows just exactly where Steve’s loyalties lie. As if tying the knot and having a pup with him isn’t evidence enough, Steve has been through literal hell and back for Bucky. Bucky knows that. And still, it baffles him. Why him? What did he do to deserve such undying devotion?

In all honesty, it would not be a good arrangement for Bucky to join the Avengers. Years of mental rewiring and forced obedience may have turned him into a mindless killing machine, but the level of skill and tactical prowess he gained from it almost seems like a fair trade-off. And HYDRA is not nearly as nice to their “bad-guys” as Shield is.

For instance, Fury would probably not approve of Bucky marching into the Highland Club Dinner, swallowing the distance between himself and the so-called “Doctor” and shoving the muzzle of his fully loaded Sig Sauer P220 right into the man’s mouth. Captain America himself would probably scold Bucky for perching a booted foot on the man’s chair and effectively crushing his testicles just before hurling him to the floor. He’s pretty sure it’s against Shield’s protocol to keep the pistol trained on the roof of his mouth (the fleshy part that thinly veils all that soft, squishy brain matter), finger hovering a hair’s width from the trigger. And he’s certain it would be _unforgivable_ if he was to crack said pistol across the man’s face, splitting his lip and opening a nice gash clear to his forehead. The blood that spatters on the plush carpet is black and smells like flame retardant, so pungent that Bucky shields his face before landing another hit.

The man underneath of him coughs and sputters, the greasy blood smearing his otherwise pristine smile. “To what—“ He chokes out a ball of red phlegm “—to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Barnes?”

Guards surge forward as Bucky gathers up a vibranium fistful of the man’s crisp white suit, weapons drawn. Though what Bucky experienced at the hands of HYDRA could hardly be called “glory days”, there is something about the metallic rasp of a sea of bullets collectively locking into position that brings Bucky back to the thrill of it all. God, he has missed this.

“Back off or get blown away!” He hears Rumlow’s authoritative bark close in behind him, but the guards are in no hurry to attack. (Apparently not as neanderthal-ish  as they look?) By now, Bucky’s reputation has preceded him and the fear in their eyes is visceral.

Bucky keeps his eyes trained on the alpha beneath him, a knee still firmly embedded in his crotch. He angles the gun upward, because knocking out a few of this asshole’s teeth would just be justified retribution. “WHERE IS MY SON.”

“You just missed him,” the man manages through bloody foam.

He jams the pistol down harder, far enough in to feel the scrape of bone against steel as he draws his weight up over him. “I won’t ask again.”

“He really doesn’t know!,” Bucky flashes a look over his shoulder at another of the party’s attendees, who is so fearful and shaken that Bucky can practically smell it even over the nauseating alpha musk. It’s an omega. Short and slight, with long brown hair and a collar around his neck. He is tugging a practically nude child to his chest, drawing her protectively into his arms. “Pl-please!” The girl buries her face in his chest whimpers.

“ _Weak_!,” Bucky growls. But the part of him that is still very much the Winter Soldier loses control as his better judgement takes over. He hauls the doctor up from the bloody floor, pinning the barrel of the gun against his temple and dragging him backwards towards the mouth of the nearest corridor. His mercurial eyes fix on the tallest of the guards—a hulking blonde with deep brown eyes and tree trunks for biceps who is ballsy enough to step closer than the others. “Tell your men to stand down; follow and you know what happens.”

The blond sets his jaw tightly, leveling his gaze defiantly. He throws his chin out—obviously not keen on taking orders from an omega, especially one who is in heat. Apprehension stirs in Bucky’s belly…he doesn’t want to make raw meatloaf out of this guy in front of all these innocents, but a promise is a promise.

“Shoot him, you idiots!” The doctor eeks out through clenched teeth. Bucky draws his arm tighter around his trachea.

“C’mon big guy,” Rumlow murmurs behind him, and his voice sounds almost sincere. “Don’t do anything stupid. I gotta feeling that your parents are someone in this room, too, and I’d hate to see the dough they’d have to shell out just to find a casket big enough to bury your ass in.”

“ _You are wasting your time_ ,” Bicen rasps. “ _By all means, continue._ ”

Bucky body-slams him against the block of wall behind the long table, knocking down a red and black HYDRA flag in the process and squeezing down so hard he can hear the crack of cartilage. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN.”

If the man is trying to say something, it’s being gurgled through a crushed, bloody windpipe. “Ease up, sweetheart,” Rumlow warns.

Bucky does, ever so slightly. A wicked grin spreads across Bicen’s face as he grips Bucky’s metal wrist with both hands, his fingers coiling around in slow, disgustingly familiar circles. “Such a masterful creation,” he coos, his glassy eyes dropping down to admire the intricate plates. “And the arm’s not bad, either.”

Bucky gives him a good shake, secretly pleased with the way a dull THUD resounds as the back of the doctor’s head slams into the wall. “START TALKING.”

“Come now, Winter.”

_Winter._

Bucky’s eyes flutter as he searches the doctor’s eyes. His mouth drops open when the old, familiar feeling sinks low and hits him in the gut.

“You remember me,” The doctor says, annunciating each vowel, his smile growing wider, more toothy. “Yes. Yes, sweet thing. It’s me. Doctor Bicen.”

“Bucky—“ Brock barely gets the word out before a tortured roar rips from somewhere deep within Bucky’s chest. He clamps down, sending the doctor into convulsions as his lungs scrape desperately for air. “BUCKY! STOP!”

The metal scales of his arm fire as his synapses flash, lighting up in blue and green sparks as he wrings the very life from the doctor.

“BUCKY, IF YOU KILL HIM, WE’VE GOT NOTHING!” Brock screams it over the collective clatter of weapons raising into firing position. He spins on his heel, both hands thrown wide as the guards advance. “KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!”

They call it “circling the drain”, and Bucky has seen it happen a thousand times. He watches as that last spark of light dances and dies in Bicen’s eyes, a satisfactory grin of his own pulling on the edges of his mouth. The doctor’s body involuntarily jerks under his metal hand, a deep rattle bringing more black blood to the surface.

“Buck.” A wide, soft hand covers his, pulling him back into the room. He drags in a deep breath and his hold loosens. He looks up—deadpan, lost—into Steve’s eyes.

Captain America still wears his signature helmet and the star-spangled outfit, but his eyes are all Steve. Big and blue and misty, like the sea after a storm. Flecks of green and gold dance like candlelight around his pupils. He places a steady hand on Bucky’s back, right in between his shoulder blades, where Bucky loves to be rubbed when they cuddle together. “It’s okay. We will find him. I promise.”

The room has parted like the red sea, the guards and the children and the omegas and alphas and servants stepping back to let the group of newcomers through.

“Rollins? Leo? Kitty?” Bucky blinks slowly. His brow furrows, mind still hazy from rage and the unwelcome flashback, as he tries to recall the names of the others. “F..Frank?” He quirks his head at a man who stands beside the Punisher, clad in red leather with a horned half-mask. “And..?”

“Daredevil,” the masked man in red offers with a slight smirk.

Frank crosses the distance between, his scintillating alpha fragrance blending with the smell of gun grease, sage and motor oil. Like the fucking Omega-Whisperer, he places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and damn if it doesn’t calm every fried nerve and synapse in his body. “Mmmh….”

The doctor, who has been able to regain most of his breath, lets out an intrigued hum. “Taming a feral omega with a mere touch? Fascinating. Oh, the information I could glean from one day with you in my lab…”

Frank’s mercurial eyes snap over into the grinning man’s, his brow furrowing. “Shut up.”

 Steve notes the cowering omegas and children in the room, biting the inside of his lip like he always does when he’s deep in thought. The muscles of his jawline flex as he surveys the scene briefly before grabbing the Doctor and hauling him up onto his feet. “Daredevil, I trust that you can survey this complex a lot faster than the rest of us. You and Frank search the premises while Rumlow and S.T.R.I.K.E. keep the guards occupied. As for the Good Doctor, let’s get him somewhere secluded and continue my husband’s...investigation.”

 

* * * * *

 

Something snaps in Boomer’s shoulder as he sails into a towering oak. The force of the impact steals every breath of air from his body and lights his upper half on fire. He clings to his arm that now hangs limply to his side and flips himself around as his assailant stalks forward. “Well…” He drags himself to a seated position, his eyes darting momentarily to the pistol at the man’s hip. “This _was_ Armani.”

 

The man called Breggs towers over him. Clad in a badgeless black tactical suit, he looks alot like the others. If it weren’t for the eye patch, Boomer couldn’t be sure he could tell him apart from his fellow guards. It’s as if they are all clones or something…

 

“For a little brat, you sure are a _lot_ of trouble.”

 

“Would you believe, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that statement?” Boomer braces himself with his good shoulder as he tries making his way back to a standing position. Halfway, his legs buckle and he tumbles back down, bleached blond hair springing loose from the ponytail to hang in his eyes.

 

“So did it hurt when you removed that nose-mole of yours?”

 

“It’s called a _beauty mark,_ you dope, and it’s a masking fabric. Shield technology.”

 

“Your recon mission worked out great didn’t it?”

 

“Bite me!”

 

The hulking alpha takes a swing and Boomer spins away just in time, sacrificing his injured arm to the hard dirt. When the man’s fist fails to connect with his face, he doubles back around, grabbing a fistful of Boomer’s hair and wrenching his head back to meet him in the eyes. Boomer’s face contorts in a silent bid to bite back the pain and he reacts, swinging a leg out and aiming for his groin. The big bull of a man easily blocks it, giving Boomer’s head a violent shake for good measure.

 

Boomer lets out a pained squeal. “What the _fuck_ do you want from me?!”

 

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” the alpha growls.

 

Before he can protest, Boomer is sailing through the air again, this time landing in a patch of wet grass that feels harder than it looks. He stifles a groan and drags his eyes upward, fingers knotted into the ground as he pulls himself up. “Making an awful lot of noise. My people are going to find me a hell of a lot faster than I thought.”

 

The alpha is too busy rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down to care. “Believe me redhead,” he grinds out, once more closing the distance between them. “They won’t be able to recognize you once they do.”

 

“Oh thank god,” Boomer says, rolling his eyes. “And here I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

 

The intense stare from the looming alpha sends ripples of sheer panic through him. At some point in the struggle, his intercom was ripped off and it’s impossible to find in the pitch blackness. The smallest thread of light spills from the looming mansion in the distance.

 

The alpha sniffs the air with a contemplative look, pursing his lips. He is picking up the nuances of Boomer’s natural musk. _Scenting him._ “Never said I didn’t. And trust me, kid. I’m going to. I’m gonna knot you so hard you’re ass will bleed for weeks. It’s no more than you deserve. Taking my eye. My fucking _job._ But first…” He kneels, in a moment producing a long, slender blade from his boot.

 

“I think the pirate look suits you better than it does me,” Boomer quips. The man lunges with a roar, embedding the knife into the tree behind him and whipping around to yank Boomer back by his ponytail. Boomer drags air into his lungs just as a wide hand plants itself across his mouth.

 

“ _Sssshhh,”_ Breggs says, dragging him back as he kicks and flails. He pulls the blade from the bark, angling it up into Boomer’s left eye. “No use in screaming. This is only going to hurt like hell.”

 

A flash of metal heading towards his retina makes Boomer forget all about the fire in his left shoulder and he sends his foot sailing back, right into Breggs’ groin. A cry tears from his chest and he drops him, giving Boomer just enough time to scramble into the darkness and out of sight.

 

He runs.

 

He runs far and fast. The night brings a playhouse affect to the atmosphere of these woods, and Boomer stumbles a few times before sailing directly into the curve of a hard, warm chest. He gags out a gasp, pulling back even as the unfamiliar arms go around him. The smell though, is distinctly omega--calm, soothing and tender.

 

“Whoa!,” the stranger barks in surprise as Boomer struggles to free himself from the circle of his arms. He is taller than most omegas, and broad-shouldered, too. The leather suit he wears smells faintly of a familiar alpha. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay! You’re safe now.”

 

The words register slowly and he dissolves against the hard body, into the welcoming, protective circle of his arms as pounding footsteps approach.

 

It’s Breggs, out of breath and staring across the distance at them. The tall omega plants his feet, his hand going down to a pair of batons at his thigh. “Back off. It’s over.”

 

Breggs’ nose crumples. “Who the fuck are you?”

 

“No one you’re gonna mess with,” comes a darker voice. Out of the leafy void, a leather-clad alpha strolls, sniper rifle glowing, night-vision locked onto the panting ex-guard.

 

Omegas learn early on that alphas are volatile predators that want nothing more to breed them. Even Boomer’s own fathers instilled this in him--a “healthy fear”, they called it. The hackles of the two are raised high into the air as they stare each other down, one alpha silently snarling back at the other.

 

“It’s never gonna stop, ya know,” Breggs finally growls out. “You started a war you can’t win.”

 

“Not interested in a speech, kid,” the other alpha says, cocking his weapon and shrugging it higher onto his shoulder. “You got two options. Walk away. Or get dragged.”

 

“Frank,” the omega says gently. “We’ve got Boomer. Let’s go.”

 

Frank--Frank Castle. This must be Matt, his omega, dressed in a horned red helmet and leather jumpsuit. Boomer’s eyes flicker up to the masked man, and what little expression he can make out in the darkness looks kind, caring, and somehow formidable. Strong.

 

The dark alpha lets out a grunt, sidling closer to Matt. As they back away, slowly and steadily, Boomer flashes a look back at the towering one-eyed alpha. What if he’s right.

 

What’s that saying Uncle Rumlow used to repeat? Cut off one head…

 

* * * * *

 

Of all the arms in the world to fall into, his Daddy’s still feel the best. The familiar briskness of Bucky’s metal arm crossing his back causes his chest to burst with relief and happiness, followed shortly by sheer exhaustion as he realizes just how tired he is. “My baby,” Bucky murmurs as he places his chin on the top Boomer’s head.

 

“What’s this?” Rumlow sweeps a thumb beneath his eye and it comes up red. In the tussle, Breggs must have succeeded in giving him a gash.

 

Frank and his Dad are busy shaking hands when the van door slides closed and Rollins slides into the driver’s side.

 

“Sasha?” Boomer barks, nearly jumping out of his spot in the seat between his Daddy and Rumlow.

 

“He is fine,” Rollins says, giving him a grateful nod in the rear-view mirror. “Thanks to you, the pups will be too. Noa is back at Shield downloading the names and coordinates of each Highland member as we speak.”

 

“We’re gonna get them back.” Bucky tugs gently on the ponytail holder until it comes loose, Boomer’s dyed blond hair falling forward into his eyes. “All of them, Boom. You did it, sweetie. I’m so proud.” He lifts the masking patch, revealing Boomers beauty mark.

 

* * * * *

 

Bucky lets out a contented sigh as his son drifts off to sleep underneath his warm flesh arm, drawing him in closer to his chest and sharing a relieved smile with Rumlow.

 

“Should get more gauze for that cut,” Rumlow muses. He flips open the side-pouch of his tactical pants and retrieves a wadded coil of fabric.

 

“What’s that?,” Bucky pipes up suddenly.

 

“What’s what?” Rumlow’s eyes dart downward, following Bucky’s gaze. A small black velvet box peaks out of the pocket, nearly spilling onto the seat.

 

Bucky’s heart leaps in his chest, his eyes flying open. “Brock...is that…”

 

“It’s nothing.” Rumlow jams the little box down to the bottom of the pocket before snapping the flap shut. He turns away to stare out the window, effectively ending the conversation.

 

Bucky glances down at his sleeping son. “He loves you, you know.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Crossing a leg over his knee, Rumlow shifts uncomfortably. “There’s a big difference between love and forgiveness.”

 

Bucky quirks his head, reaching over to sweep flesh fingers across Brock’s cheek. “I’m not so sure about that. Boomer is special, and it’s going to take someone special to tame him.”

 

Rumlow lets out a dark chuckle, glancing down at the sleeping boy between them. “He’s going to be the death of me. You know that?”

 

“Of course.” Bucky flashes him a grin, angling Boomer’s injured arm and gently pushing him over to Brock’s side. The kid moans a little before smacking his lips sleepily and settling into the crook of Brock’s arm. “Why do you think I wanted you to be his god-father? You deserve each other.”

 

Brock stares down into Boomers sleeping face and gently presses a square of the wound dressing to his cheek. “I hope you’re right, Buck.” He plants a firm kiss on Boomer’s forehead, his grin widening when Boomer shifts to turn further into his chest. “Because he’s my fucking world.”

 

* * * * *

 

_Two months later…_

 

When he is called up to the stage, his heart stops for a second. This moment--this is what it has all been about. Not because he’s _omega_ or the son of Captain America. But because he’s wanted this, more than anything, for as long as he can remember. He is glad they were able to complete the mission before Graduation so his Academy photos would reflect his natural hair color.

 

“Bailey “Boomer” Barnes,” Director Fury announces.

 

What he’s not expecting is when the crowd rises. It is no secret Boomer is an omega,  and the first to graduate from Shield’s Agent Academy. For a split second,  the applause of the crowd sounds like glass shattering. He bites his inner lip through a teary smile before jutting his jaw outward and snapping to attention. He stops the two steps away from the Director, eyes purposeful and fixed to give him a salute. The badge feels heavier on his chest than he thought it would. Must be all that expectation and responsibility, and he wonders then if that’s how his Dads feel.

 

Fury was pissed when he found out about Boomer’s extra-curricular “mission”: but he had also been understanding. Boomer got off with four week’s suspension and finished his Finals in three. Fury exchanges a sharp handshake for a the hard-bound case containing Boomer’s diploma. “Congratulations, son.” He pulls Boomer forward on his heels before letting go, whispering in his ear. “And pull anything like that again I’ll lock you up in RAFT so fast it’ll make your brain spin.”

 

Boomer forces a smile and nods. “Erhm. Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

 

His feet barely leave the last step off the podium before two hulking arms go around his waist, launching him upwards in a crushing hug. “M’so PROUD of you, bug!” Bucky laughs as Steve’s tears soak into Boomer’s uniform. Boomer pushes back a little, one hand stopping his hat from falling clear off his head.

 

“D-dad! Stop it…”

 

Leo gives him a slap on the back that knocks the wind out of his already squeezed lungs. “Guess I can’t call you Short Stack anymore can I?”

 

“Agent has a nicer ring to it,” Noa muses behind him.

 

Boomer looks beyond them to see other smiling familiar faces, as well. “Matt? Mr. Castle? You--you came?”

 

“Of course we did,” Frank offers with a grin. “How else m’ I going to get my knife back?”

 

Boomer searches the crowd. The sea of celebrating faces lacks one important figure in particular. As his feet return to solid earth, a scan of the premises comes up short and his face falls a little. Until he feels a little pinch on his elbow. Bucky eyes flicker up to the very top row of the stadium, where a black-clad man with short buzzed hair is exiting.

 

“Uncle Rumlow…” Boomer murmurs in a near-trance. He pushes past the small gathering and makes his way through the dense sea of graduates and out onto the black top. “Rumlow. Ruml---BROCK!”

 

Not a single word has been spoken between them since that night. In fairness, Boomer supposes, he hasn’t given Rumlow a reason to turn around. On the other hand, Rumlow hasn’t given Boomer a reason to _want_ him to. Nonetheless, he pauses mid-stride, glancing back across his shoulder with an unreadable smile.

 

Boomer does his best to ignore the milling guests and graduates, shifting hesitantly on his feet. “I’m glad you came.”

 

“So am I.” After an uncomfortable pause, he picks up where he left off, heading to his newly rebuilt Bugatti and throwing over his shoulder, “See you around, Agent.”

 

“Rumlow--wait.” Boomer easily closes the distance between them and grabs a fistful of the back of his tank top. Rumlow spins on his heel, mouth open and Boomer crushes them together, devouring Rumlow’s scent and pawing him way into his arms.

 

“Fuck--Boomer…” Rumlow bites back, nipping at the diminished scent of his last mating mark and fighting back a sob as he returns the kiss, backing him up into the car with a resounding BANG.

 

“Uncle Rum...I…” Boomer tries through tear-stained eyes, climbing his way into Rumlow’s lap, as close in as he can muster, tackling Brock’s lips with his own. “I...I love---”

 

“ _Shut up,”_ Rumlow groans out, nudging Boomer’s head back to expose his neck.

 

“Okay.”

 

After a few moments of fumbling with the keys and stumbling over to the back seat, Brock tears the door open and lays Boomer flat inside, jerking his legs apart to rut his sturdy hips harshly in between.

 

“Mmm---fuck! Yeah…”

 

“Get a room,” a passerby mutters. Rumlow bites down onto the mating mark, flipping them a middle finger.

 

Boomer eeks out a giggle.

 

“You’re never leaving me again,” he growls, gnawing on a mouthful of soft, supple skin. It turns a bright red instantly, and Boomer shakes his head in agreement and grabs mercilessly at the growing bulge in Rumlow’s pants. Rumlow lets out a sharp hiss. “If we’re gonna go there, baby, we better get out of here first.”

 

Boomer wedges a hand between them, practically kicking Rumlow back onto the pavement. “ _Then you better drive fast._ ”

 

* * * * * *

 

At the entrance to the Steve blinks quizzically as the Bugatti squeals its tires and roars out of the parking lot. “Well, I guess that rules out taking him to Applebee’s.”

 

Bucky places his hand in Steve’s,  giving it a little squeeze. “I have a feeling we can all meet up a little later. Besides…” he tugs Steve in the direction of the truck, pulling him closer to his chest to whisper in his ear,  “There's something we need to discuss.”

 

Steve hesitates,  his mouth dropping open and eyes flying wide when Bucky leads his hand underneath the loose-fitting dress shirt. A slight bump protrudes from his usually flat stomach,  and it causes Steve to suck in a gasp and lose his breath all at once.

 

“Three little somethings,  as a matter of fact.”

 

\--end--

  
  


[ ](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/rumboom_zpsbhux6vsf.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special shout-out to Hiemallily, who has been my partner in crime through this and many other musings and who continues to support, encourage and cheer me on. Thank you for your friendship. You mean the world to me.
> 
> I'm not going anywhere! 
> 
> NOT WITHOUT YOU


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